After he left, the apartment felt unusually quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening to my thoughts. I placed the small present on my table and stared at it for a while before finally opening it. Inside was a simple bookmark shaped like a crescent moon. It was elegant and unexpected, just like the person who had given it.
I freshened up and sat in front of my laptop. Besides my office work, I was also a novelist. Writing had always been my escape, a place where emotions could be rearranged into neat sentences. My current book, "The CEO's contractual wife," was almost complete, and only the final chapters remained.
The words flowed easily that morning. Characters spoke, scenes unfolded, and for a while, I forgot the loneliness that usually followed me like a shadow. Yet every now and then, my mind drifted to the opposite door in the corridor and the calm voice that had introduced itself just hours ago.
By afternoon, I decided to step out for lunch. The café nearby was warm and filled with soft music. People chatted around me, cups clinked, and life moved normally, but my thoughts wandered backward into memories I rarely visited. Old disappointments, unfinished conversations, and silent goodbyes resurfaced.
I stirred my drink slowly, watching the ripples fade. Sometimes the past didn't shout; it whispered, and those whispers were harder to ignore. When I finally returned home, the bookmark rested between the pages of my novel, quietly reminding me that new chapters often begin without permission.