Semua Bab Mine to Keep: Bab 1 - Bab 10

ALIEThe Uber smells faintly of pine air freshener and wet wool. The heater blasts against my skin, thawing me out, but I can't shake the chill crawling under my skin.I stare out the rain-smeared window, forcing myself not to look back. I don't want to see him still standing there. I don't want to know.The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Rough night?" he asks, his voice kind enough but edged with the weary disinterest of someone who's seen everything.I let out a laugh that's more like a sigh. "You could say that."My phone buzzes in my lap. I almost don't look, but habit wins. It's a notification. I frown. Low storage warning.Weird. I cleared space just last week.Another buzz. Another notification. Unknown Device Connected.The blood drains from my face. My thumb shakes as I tap the screen, but the message vanishes, replaced by my home screen like nothing happened.My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass. Wet hair plastered to my cheeks, mascara smudged

ALIEI lie there for a long time, clutching the sheets, forcing myself to breathe past the buzzing in my veins. It's just a dream, I tell myself. Just a dream bleeding into real life because I'm stressed, because my brain can't tell the difference anymore.But the cologne doesn't fade. It sits in the air like a fingerprint I can't wipe away.Finally, I throw the blanket off and stumble to the kitchen. I need water. I need something cold, grounding, ordinary. The floor creaks under my feet, familiar, but even that sound sets my nerves jangling.The glass shakes in my hand as I drink.When I set it down, my phone buzzes on the counter. I nearly drop the glass. A calendar reminder flashes bright on the screen:Vendor Meeting – 9:00 a.m. – West End Café – Contact: Mr. Black.I stare at it until the letters blur.It isn't unusual, not really. Virtual assistant jobs sometimes want bodies in chairs, faces at tables. Plenty of people I know have handled them before. But this would be my first

AlieThe morning light is too clean, too sharp, like the sun is trying to scrub the night out of me.I lie there longer than I should, watching it creep across the wall. Everything looks ordinary—the same old curtains, the same quiet apartment—but my body doesn’t believe it. My chest still feels tight, my pulse quick for no reason I can name.Coffee first. Always coffee. If I move through the steps—filter, water, switch—I can make the morning mechanical, safe.The mug warms my hands, but it doesn’t chase away the echo of that café: his voice, calm and steady, and the way my skin still hums where he touched me.The place smells faintly of rain even though the windows are closed. That’s what gets me first. Not the missing time from last night, not the half-formed dreams, but the smell. It shouldn’t be here.I try to shake it off. There’s work to do. I open my laptop and bury myself in spreadsheets, emails, numbers that never stop adding up.But little things keep tugging at me—the chair

bodega with the cat that is three parts lion, the nail salon two doors down that is always playing a true crime podcast at a low murmur, a teenager on a skateboard practicing a trick like persistence is oxygen. I buy a second apple because the first one was a betrayal and I am stubborn. I come home feeling more like a person and less like a cursor blinking without a sentence.Inside, the light has gone gold. I put the apple in the bowl. I take a picture of the bowl. It’s ridiculous and also reassuring because later, if I need to, I will know exactly how many apples there were and where they were sitting. I tell myself this is not a symptom; it is the sensible impulse of someone who intends to stop making herself crazy. I delete the photo and immediately regret it, then tell myself the regret is how I know I’m not actually spiraling.I sit down at my desk to make a list of what I’ve done and what still needs doing, because the day feels smeary if I don’t pin it to a page. The chair giv

AlieThe email looks legitimate.Subject line: Heliograph Fund – Creative Consultant Inquiry.A neat paragraph about a short-term branding project, a generous stipend, and an address that’s only ten blocks from where I met Mr. Black last time.I tell myself it can’t be connected. Heliograph sounds like a grant, a committee, something run by serious people with lanyards. But the phrase narrative strategy flickers in the back of my head like a low battery warning.I answer anyway. I need the work. I need to believe coincidences still exist.By noon, an assistant with a bright, efficient voice schedules a “brief orientation.” The confirmation lands in my calendar with the same weight as a verdict.And when I look up the address—West Tower again, same elevator bank, different floor—the air in the apartment seems to shift temperature.The office smells like cedar polish and static electricity. A receptionist offers coffee I don’t want. My throat is already dry.“Mr. Black will see you now,