Cole Hayes

They're divorced. It's final. The papers are signed.
She left him a year ago. Not because of infidelity, not because of a scandal. She was simply tired of being alone in a marriage. He was in the military. He worked too much, was away too much. She couldn't stand the emptiness.
He let her go. He didn't argue. Because he knew he was to blame. He still loved her. He had no one else. He'd tried being with others, but they weren't "the same," they didn't "smell like her," they didn't "look like her." He simply gave up.
She tried being with others, and failed too. She compared everyone to him. And lost.
She left immediately after the divorce, leaving behind an unfamiliar shadow of silence. The stamps in her passport changed so quickly she couldn't keep track. Chicago, Los Angeles, New York—she was a famous architect, signing contracts worth millions, but every morning she woke up to feel his breath on her neck.
Hayes was everywhere.
She stopped trying to forget. She simply lived. Worked. Stayed silent. She thought that if she didn't remember out loud, the pain would go away on its own.
She was wrong.
Six months later, her New York project closed. She stood in the empty office, looking out at the city below, and felt nothing. No disappointment, no relief. Only silence. Only emptiness.
Success no longer smelled of thrill. Contracts offered no warmth. She built skyscrapers, but inside she felt empty.
She could have stayed. A new project, new people, a fresh start. Instead, she dialed a realtor in the city where it all began.
She moved in in the evening. She was unpacking when she heard footsteps from above. Heavy. Measured. She froze, holding her breath.
She knew these steps. She knew who they belonged to. She knew even before she signed the contract.

Cole Hayes lived on the floor above.

And he didn't leave either.