Good food, good thoughts, and good sleep.
And bam — you wake up to the sound of your neighbor throwing a tantrum.
Couples usually fight with passion at night, moving from throwing insults to throwing whatever precious thing their partner loves. There's a strange kind of satisfaction in destroying what your partner values, because it makes you feel like that thing mattered more than you did.
She broke his PS5 today. Yesterday, it was his watch from his best friend.
I've filed three noise complaints in three weeks. Nothing seems to work.
I got up, dressed as usual, and stepped outside. Today is a new day. Today, I have to put my skills to use. It's do-or-get-fired day.
One lazy night at a bar, after chugging four or five beers, I met Harry, bawling his eyes out. We became friends fast. Too fast. I overshared — from my rough childhood to being jobless, from my first love to my trashy ex-boyfriend. I spilled everything. He did too. We patted each other on the back for staying alive long enough to meet someone else with a sad life. Brothers in unfortunate stories, we cheered after every shot.
Harry and I go way back — four whole weeks. Short, but no one else knows my life as he does. And I don't think anyone knows him the way I do.
He's rich, but independent. Loved by everyone, yet the girl he loved since childhood is getting married to one of his brothers. That part alone was hard enough. But worse was knowing the real punishment: he refused to give up a small piece of land their late mother loved. The land around it is about to become a tourist spot. It goes against his quiet, sacred space.
He either has to hand over that land or win her love when she joins his group. Our group — I misspoke and guaranteed I'd make her fall in love with him, even if it meant risking everything, before she gets married.
In return, he promised to get me a job and fix my life.
We were close. Like best friends. But that night didn't end there.
We decided we had to make sure there were no feelings or temptations between us while working on this. So we decided to kiss.
It was my idea.
His lips pressed against mine. Then we laughed, brushing off the heaviness.
If you're wondering whether there was a heartbeat-skipping moment — no.
And if you think Harry gave off more of a boss-with-mood-swings energy than a happy-friend energy in the last chapter, you're absolutely right.
As our salty lips touched and soft smiles rested on our cheeks, forgetting the things we cried about all night, we blinked and scoffed and laughed — truly happy, funnily lifting our spirits.
She said sorry… and left.
Harry dropped his glass.
She — the childhood friend he loves, wants to marry, wants a future with — had just seen us kiss.
Unfortunate souls, we are. The timing was perfect. And terrible.
Harry was upset because it was my idea. I was upset because I was trying to fix everything too fast.
So our friendship took on a new shape: one of the boss and a spy.
One goal — make her fall for Harry, at any cost, or get ready to be fired.
Since that day, every night we submit a plan of action.
We agreed it would be better if she settled into the company first, and I would go undercover as her coworker to gather information about her personal life — anything small or big.
We had two questions:
First, does she know it was me at the bar?
Second — does she actually like Harry?
That night, our vision was blurry. He's sure it was her. But we don't know what expression she had when she saw us.
While Harry is away on a business trip, I'll dig for answers.
The sound of the gaming system stuck on "game over," then the clatter, and then the deep silence — the kind I haven't heard since Harry left this place.
It was HR, standing in the middle, gauging every inch of the room with keen eyes. I know that feeling. The whole building is squeaky clean and organized, without any unnecessary things — and here it's not only filled with unnecessary stuff, but it's a mess. The whole place is trashed. Some of it is from employees and some from our cat. He's currently hissing at HR, by the way. His expression screams that he's a dog person — or he could be hating both; that's a possibility.
"How do you even live in this mess?" he asks. No one answers.
I, for one, got comfortable in this mess — probably because I'm a mess.
He then slowly looks down at our feet, staring.
From an outside perspective, it looks like HR is behaving oddly by staring at his employees' legs, but he has a reason.
The colorful, fluffy cloud slippers.
Harry wanted us not to wear heels or anything that would harm the cat, so he kept loafers at the counter. We took the liberty of making it more comfortable, like a home for the cat and us. This is how we live in this mess: comfortably, on our own terms.
He does a classic eye roll, then speaks.
"I just came here to introduce someone. Could you at least clean a bit?" He steps out.
He made a fair point.
We got to it — pushing everything into either the dustbin or the cupboard. It got to the point where it still looked like a mess, so I opened the door to his room and stuffed everything in there. We can clean it later — a mutual nod to clamp it together.
The space looked much better. Although we didn't have time to remove the cat fur everywhere, we did well.
I wait second by second for her arrival.
And there she is — dressed in white, looking almost saint-like. A soft, wonderful smile. Long hair with light brown streaks catching the morning sun.
HR clears his throat. "This is our new employee. She's worked in architectural design."
She steps forward. "Hi, I'm Jane."
Her voice is gentle. Calm.
She doesn't look at me like I'm someone she recognizes. No hesitation. No flicker of memory. Nothing.
Good.
Then HR speaks again.
"And the second member joining today — the final addition to our creative team — Vick."
My heart forgets how to beat.
The room stills, and our eyes meet.
He and I both Froze.
It's him.
The man who lives in my head twenty-four hours a day. The name I never say out loud. The face I never forget. The ghost of a version of me that no longer exists.
He looks… real. Too real.
Not memory-soft or dream-blurred.
He's standing right there.
Breathing. Blinking. Existing.