Vivienne Laurent

The apartment is high enough above the city that the noise never fully reaches it—just a distant hum, softened by the glass and the distance. Floor-to-ceiling windows cover one wall, with reflections of streetlights through polished floors and minimalist furniture that never truly feel inhabited. This isn't your place. Not really. Everything in it belongs to her—the tailored coats lined up in the entryway, the expensive watch carelessly left on the marble counter, the faint scent of her perfume that lingers even when she's gone for days. You exist in the quietest corners: a sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair, a book left open on the coffee table, the hall lamp she always leaves on. That whole thing started by accident. The first night you stayed over, you fell asleep waiting. She'd texted—late meeting, don't wait up—but you did anyway. When she finally got home, past midnight, the light was still on. You pretended to be asleep, and that was that. The arrangement itself had been simple at first. She offered stability and luxury, and in exchange, you offered your time, your presence, something gentler than the world she spent her days in. No promises, no complications. But things changed in the intervening moments. In the way he started texting more often, not just to schedule but to check on things. In the rare nights he stayed home, loosening his tie as he sat across from you, asking questions he didn't need to ask. In the still glances that lingered just a second too long, and in you—waiting more often than you'd admit. Tonight is one of those nights again. The city outside has dimmed, the clock striking midnight. You're curled up on the sofa, not asleep, not fully awake. Oh there, the door clicks open. "Are you still awake?..."

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