Sophia didn't go back to the prison the next morning.
For the first time since the investigation began, she woke up without her alarm screaming at her like a warning. No notebook on the desk. No list of questions waiting to be asked. Just silence—and exhaustion.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like Nathan counted the ones on his prison wall.
This is healthy, she told herself.
Two days away. Just to breathe.
Day One began with good intentions.
She made coffee—real coffee, not the burnt excuse she usually drank between interviews—and sat by the window of her small apartment. The street below buzzed with life: people laughing, arguing, running late. Normal life.
She tried to read the news.
She failed.
Every headline somehow twisted itself back to him.
Prison reform.
False accusations.
Cold cases reopened.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, closing her laptop.
She went for a walk instead, convincing herself fresh air would help reset her brain. It didn't. She kept replaying conversations in her head.
His voice.
His pauses.
The way he looked at her whenever she joked—like she disturbed something quiet inside him.
Stop, she scolded herself.
You're a journalist, not a teenager.
She passed a café and paused. Almost went inside—then remembered he'd once said he preferred black coffee.
That annoyed her.
"Great," she whispered. "Now my subconscious is taking drink orders from prisoners."
She walked faster.
---
Pressure builds
By the afternoon, her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Her editor wanted updates.
Her inbox filled with emails marked urgent.
A colleague sent her a message:
> Careful with this case. You're getting too close.
Sophia tossed the phone onto the couch.
Too close to what?
The truth?
Or him?
She spent the evening cleaning to avoid thinking. The apartment had never looked better—and her thoughts had never been messier. She even reorganized a drawer that clearly didn't need reorganizing.
At midnight, she found herself holding her notebook.
She hadn't realized she'd picked it up.
Inside were his words. His pauses. Small observations she'd never planned to write down.
She closed it gently, like it might hear her.
"I'm allowed to rest," she said aloud, as if convincing an invisible audience.
Still, she couldn't sleep.
---
Day Two
The second day was worse.
Not because of work—but because of the absence.
She had grown used to something she hadn't noticed forming: the rhythm of going to the prison, the quiet intensity of their conversations, the strange comfort of someone who didn't expect anything from her except honesty.
She sat on her bed with her phone in hand.
She almost typed his name.
Then she laughed at herself.
"Yeah, I'll just text the prison. Totally normal."
She dropped the phone.
To distract herself, she cooked. Burned the food. Ordered takeout instead.
While waiting, she caught her reflection in the mirror.
"You look ridiculous," she told herself. "You're missing someone who hasn't even smiled properly at you."
Yet the thought lingered:
Did he notice I didn't come?
The idea unsettled her more than she expected.
---
A quiet realization
That evening, rain tapped against the windows. Sophia curled up on the couch with a blanket, finally letting herself slow down.
And in the quiet, the truth surfaced.
She wasn't tired of the work.
She wasn't overwhelmed by the danger.
She was afraid.
Afraid of how easily Nathan had slipped into her thoughts.
Afraid that this case mattered to her for reasons she hadn't planned.
She remembered his warning.
People who get too close to the truth often pay for it.
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I know."
---
Decision
By the end of the second day, Sophia stood in front of her window again, watching the city lights glow softly in the dark.
She felt calmer. Clearer.
Stronger.
Avoiding him wouldn't fix anything. Running wouldn't either.
If she was going to finish this story—
she had to face him again.
Tomorrow.
With sharper questions.
With steadier hands.
And with boundaries she wasn't sure she could keep.
Because whether she admitted it or not…
Those two days away had only proven one thing.
Parallel Scenes — While She Was Away
Back inside the prison, time moved differently.
Nathan noticed her absence the first morning.
Not because he was waiting.
Not because he expected her.
But because the chair across from him stayed empty longer than usual.
The guard opened the door, glanced inside, then closed it again.
No journalist.
No notebook.
No chaotic energy filling the room.
Nathan said nothing.
He never did.
Still, his eyes flicked once—only once—to the clock.
Late, he thought.
The second day was worse.
The room felt smaller. Quieter.
Too quiet.
He sat alone, counting the cracks again.
Eighty-seven.
Still eighty-seven.
The fourth one from the left still looked like a bird.
He hated that he expected her voice to break the silence.
Hated it even more when it didn't.
---
A question he didn't ask
A guard passed by.
"Your journalist isn't coming?" the man asked casually.
Nathan's jaw tightened.
"She's not mine," he replied coldly.
The guard shrugged. "Didn't say she was."
Nathan looked back at the table—but the damage was done.
The idea lingered.
Had she given up?
Had someone warned her off?
Had she decided he wasn't worth the risk?
He folded his hands together, chains clinking softly.
Good, he told himself.
This is better.
Yet the thought tasted bitter.
---
The thing he couldn't stop
That night, lying on the narrow prison bed, Nathan stared at the ceiling.
For the first time in months, sleep didn't come easily.
He replayed small moments he hadn't meant to remember:
The way she laughed before she tried to hide it
How she leaned forward when she was curious
The way she said his name—as if it mattered
She's just a journalist.
He turned on his side.
And you're just a story.
So why did the silence feel heavier than the chains?
---
The truth he wouldn't admit
On the third morning, Nathan was back in the interrogation room.
Same posture.
Same cold mask.
But this time, when footsteps echoed in the hallway, his focus sharpened.
The door opened.
Not yet.
He didn't move. Didn't react.
But when the guard finally said time was up, something dark and quiet settled in his chest.
She still hadn't come.
Nathan exhaled slowly.
"She warned me," he murmured to himself.
"Smart ones walk away."
And yet…
When the door finally closed, he stayed seated for a few seconds longer than necessary—
as if part of him still hoped
the noise in the hallway
would turn into her voice
She missed him.