The days began like this now.
Early. Polished. Predictable.
Zoe stepped into the elevator mid-sentence with Noah, her voice light but efficient—all business, no detours. Stacy was already inside, her posture immaculate, her expression unreadable. Zoe offered the briefest of nods.
"Good morning, Ms. Holloway."
"Rivera," Stacy replied, cool and even, without looking.
The elevator doors slid shut.
Silence bloomed, thick and unnatural.
Zoe didn't glance her way again.
-
The campaign briefing was no different. Stacy passed behind Zoe's chair, her voice low, meant only for her.
"Finalize those revisions by end of day."
"Already in progress," Zoe replied, eyes locked on her screen.
Stacy lingered—just a second too long—as if waiting for a flicker of something. Recognition. Softness. Anything.
But Zoe never looked up.
-
They crossed paths again by the design pod. Zoe was reviewing comps, stylus in hand, her focus razor-sharp. She didn't break stride.
"Excuse me," she said, polite but clipped, as she brushed past.
No warmth.
No spark.
Not even a glance.
Stacy didn't respond.
She just watched her go—like she was watching the final thread snap.
-
Afternoon passed in brainstorms and client calls, the room alive with energy. Zoe was brilliant, articulate, responsive. But her brilliance was broadcast outward now—aimed at the team, the pitch, the strategy. Never Stacy.
"Refine the third slide for tighter alignment," Stacy offered during a layout review.
Zoe didn't lift her eyes.
"Noted," she murmured, fingers already typing.
-
And so the days unfolded—one after another.
Brief nods.
Neutral emails.
Conversations carved clean of anything personal.
No scarves traded in quiet corners.
No shared jokes half-whispered across the table.
No glances that lingered too long, too much.
Just the sterile rhythm of professionalism.
Zoe hadn't vanished. She hadn't retreated with bitterness or slammed any doors.
She'd simply stepped back. Gracefully. Deliberately.
Far enough to protect what mattered.
Far enough to keep her dignity.
Even if it meant letting her heart fracture, slowly, in the silence Stacy had once asked for.
And Stacy?
She stood in that silence now—composed, polished, routine.
And quietly, unbearably, alone.
**THE ECHO**
She'd told herself this was what she wanted.
That the distance would make things easier. Cleaner. That letting Zoe go—or rather, keeping her at arm's length—was the only rational move left. That vulnerability was a luxury she couldn't afford, not now, not when the pitch was days away and every second was a thread holding the company's future together.
But now, in the stillness of her office with only the low hum of her monitor and the rhythmic tapping of rain against the window, Stacy was forced to confront the one thing she hadn't anticipated:
It hurt.
God, it fucking hurt.
Zoe was doing exactly what Stacy had said she needed. She was being professional. Polished. Distant. Her voice was cool and polite in meetings, her eyes careful not to linger, her presence so contained that it was like she'd folded herself into a perfect, unreadable box. And every time Stacy passed her in the hallway or caught a glimpse of her tucked into a corner of the design pod, it felt like she was watching someone unlearn her. Like Zoe was systematically erasing every soft moment they'd ever shared.
And worse—
Stacy had no right to be angry about it.
She was the one who had pulled back.
She was the one who said she couldn't afford distractions.
She was the one who, in some twisted way, thought she was protecting them both by pretending none of it meant anything.
But now?
Now she found herself lingering outside conference rooms a little too long, hoping Zoe might glance up.
Now she caught herself looking for Zoe's name in her inbox with a pang she refused to name.
Now she replayed every clipped, professional interaction like a punishment she'd willingly chosen.
And Zoe?
Zoe hadn't retaliated.
She hadn't confronted or chased or demanded anything.
She'd just... disappeared. Quietly. Gracefully. With the kind of poise Stacy had always admired—and now resented, because it meant Zoe had listened. It meant Zoe understood her boundaries too well.
Stacy pressed her palms into the edge of her desk, jaw tight. The glass of whiskey nearby remained untouched. It didn't help anymore—not with this kind of ache. This wasn't something she could drink away or bury under strategy decks.
She'd built this distance like a fortress. Brick by brick, excuse by excuse. And now that Zoe stood on the other side, she realized too late:
She didn't feel safer.
She felt alone.
A knock came at the door—a junior team member, quick and bright-eyed, asking about tomorrow's pitch order. Stacy gave her instructions she couldn't remember five minutes later. Her mind was elsewhere—stuck in a hallway, an elevator, a silence thick with all the things she hadn't said.
And what terrified her most wasn't that Zoe might move on.
It was the sinking suspicion that she already had.
That maybe, this time, Stacy had distanced herself right out of something real.
And all she had left now... was the echo.