MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 1: The Girl Everyone Notices

---

The morning sun crept through the gap in my curtains like an unwelcome guest who didn't understand the concept of boundaries. I groaned, pulling my pillow over my face, as if that pathetic barrier could somehow stop the inevitable: Monday.

"Asenath! If you don't get up right now, I'm coming in there with a bucket of ice water!"

My mother's voice pierced through the walls with surgical precision. She wasn't bluffing either. Last semester, she'd actually done it. I still had trust issues with buckets.

"I'm up!" I called back, my voice muffled by Egyptian cotton. "I'm literally standing right now. Doing jumping jacks. So much energy."

I didn't move.

The sound of footsteps approaching my door sent a jolt of genuine panic through my body. I threw the covers off and launched myself out of bed with the grace of a newborn giraffe, my feet tangling in the sheets and sending me stumbling into my dresser.

"Ow. Ow. Okay, I'm up. I'm awake. This is me, being conscious."

The footsteps paused, then retreated. Victory.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. My dark hair looked like it had gotten into a fight with my pillow and lost spectacularly. Mascara from two days ago had migrated under my eyes, giving me that sought-after "raccoon who's seen some things" aesthetic. One of my eyebrows seemed higher than the other, though I was pretty sure that was just my face being dramatic.

"Exquisite beauty," I muttered to myself, attempting to finger-comb the bird's nest on my head. "Charming and elegant. A vision of grace."

My reflection stared back at me, unimpressed.

Here's the thing about being the girl everyone notices: it sounds glamorous until you realize that "everyone noticing" includes the creepy guy at the convenience store, your mother's friends who always comment on how you've "developed," and every single person who witnessed your most embarrassing moments throughout your academic career.

I was twenty-two years old, fresh out of university, and somehow still haunted by things that happened when I was seventeen. If that isn't a special kind of pathetic, I don't know what is.

The bathroom was my first destination—a necessary pitstop before facing the world. I turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up, scrolling through my phone with the glazed expression of someone who wasn't ready to process information yet.

Three texts from my mother (all sent within the last ten minutes, all variations of "wake up"), one from my coworker asking if I could cover her shift (no), and seventeen notifications from the group chat I kept muted for my mental health.

And one text from Beryl.

**Beryl:** *good morning sunshine ☀️ coffee before work?*

I smiled before I could stop myself. Beryl had this annoying habit of being aggressively positive in the morning, which should have been irritating but somehow wasn't. We'd been friends since we were seven years old—fifteen years of her sending me good morning texts and me responding with varying degrees of grumpiness.

**Me:** *it's 7am. nothing is good.*

**Beryl:** *so that's a yes to coffee*

**Me:** *obviously*

**Beryl:** *usual spot. 8:15. don't be late*

**Me:** *i'm always late*

**Beryl:** *i know. that's why i said 8:15 when i meant 8:30.*

I snorted, tossing my phone onto the counter and stepping into the shower. The hot water did its job of transforming me from a resentful gremlin into something resembling a functional human being. I went through my routine on autopilot—shampoo, conditioner, that fancy body wash Beryl had bought me for my birthday because she said I "deserved to smell like a tropical vacation."

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and trailing steam like some kind of low-budget movie entrance, I had approximately forty-five minutes to make myself presentable.

I stood in front of my closet, dripping onto the carpet, and contemplated my options.

The thing about working at a boutique marketing firm was that the dress code existed in this frustrating limbo between "professional" and "creative." Too formal and you looked like you were trying too hard. Too casual and you got passive-aggressive emails from HR about "maintaining brand image." It was a delicate balance that I had not yet mastered.

I settled on high-waisted black trousers and a burgundy blouse that my mother said made me look "expensive." Whatever that meant. Makeup was minimal—foundation to hide the evidence of my Netflix binge, mascara to convince people I had naturally long lashes, and lip gloss because my lips got dry and I refused to look crusty.

My hair, mercifully, had decided to cooperate. It fell in dark waves past my shoulders, the kind of effortless look that actually required quite a bit of effort. I'd learned a long time ago that "I woke up like this" was a complete lie perpetuated by people who woke up two hours early to look like they hadn't tried.

"Asenath! Breakfast!"

"Coming!"

I grabbed my bag, gave myself one last look in the mirror—acceptable, not tragic—and headed downstairs.

My mother was in the kitchen, already dressed for her own job at the hospital, somehow looking more put-together at 7:30 in the morning than I would look at any point during the day. She had the same dark hair as me, the same brown eyes, the same tendency toward dramatic facial expressions. Looking at her was like looking at a preview of my future, which was both comforting and mildly terrifying.

"You look nice," she said, sliding a plate of toast toward me. "Date?"

"It's Monday, Mom. I'm going to work."

"You can have dates on Mondays."

"I cannot have dates ever, because my life is a void of romantic prospects and I've accepted this."

She gave me that look—the one that said she didn't believe me but wasn't going to push. "You're too pretty to be this dramatic."

"Being pretty is exactly why I'm this dramatic. Have you met pretty people? We're all disasters."

"Eat your toast."

I ate my toast.

"Are you meeting Beryl?" she asked, too casually.

"For coffee. Why?"

"No reason. I just think it's nice that you two have stayed so close. She's a good influence on you."

I paused mid-chew. There was something in her tone—something I couldn't quite identify. My mother had known Beryl almost as long as I had. She'd watched us grow up together, had hosted countless sleepovers, had driven us to movies and mall trips and all the other activities that defined female friendship in our formative years.

"She's my best friend," I said slowly. "Of course we're close."

"I know. I'm just saying." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Have a good day at work, sweetheart."

"Yeah. You too."

I finished my breakfast in contemplative silence, trying to figure out what that conversation had actually been about. With my mother, there were always layers. She never said things without meaning something else underneath. It was exhausting.

By the time I left the house, my brain had decided to table the issue for later analysis. I had more pressing concerns—namely, not being late to meet Beryl.

The café was a ten-minute walk from my house, nestled between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop in the kind of neighborhood that made you feel like you should be carrying a canvas tote bag and having opinions about coffee beans. It was called "The Daily Grind," which was either a clever pun or a cry for help from the owner. Possibly both.

I spotted Beryl through the window before I even opened the door. She was sitting at our usual table—the one by the window with the wobbly leg that we'd learned to compensate for—scrolling through her phone with a small smile on her face.

Beryl was the kind of beautiful that snuck up on you. She didn't have the sharp, obvious features that made people stop and stare. Instead, she had this warmth to her—soft brown skin, hair that she kept in neat locs usually pulled back from her face, eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She looked like someone who would help you move apartments and actually mean it when she offered.

She looked up as I walked in, and her face lit up in a way that made something twist in my chest. I ignored it, like I always did.

"You're early," she said, sounding genuinely surprised.

"You told me 8:15 when you meant 8:30. I know your tricks." I slid into the seat across from her. "Also, I ran two red lights."

"You walked here."

"Pedestrian red lights. Very dangerous. I risked my life for this friendship."

Beryl laughed—a real laugh, the kind that came from her whole body. "Your dedication is noted and appreciated. I already ordered for you."

"You're an angel. A perfect human being. I don't deserve you."

"You don't," she agreed, sliding a cup toward me. "But I keep you around anyway. You're entertaining."

"Wow. I'm entertainment to you. That's what fifteen years of friendship has earned me."

"Fifteen years and you still can't wake up on time. I think entertainment is generous."

I took a sip of my coffee—oat milk latte, two pumps of vanilla, exactly how I liked it—and felt some of the Monday tension ease from my shoulders. This was the best part of my routine. Not the coffee itself, though that certainly helped. But this. Beryl. The easy rhythm of our conversation, the way we could slip into banter without thinking about it.

"So," Beryl said, leaning back in her chair. "How was your weekend?"

"Uneventful. Netflix. Regret. The usual." I wrapped my hands around my cup. "How was yours?"

Something flickered across her face—there and gone so quickly I almost missed it. "Good. Yeah, it was good. I went to that art show downtown. The one I told you about?"

"The one with the sculptures made of recycled materials?"

"That's the one. It was actually really cool. There was this piece made entirely of old computer keyboards, and somehow it looked like a human heart. Like, anatomically accurate. I don't know how they did it."

I watched her talk, noting the way she gestured with her hands, the enthusiasm that crept into her voice when she was excited about something. Beryl had always been like this—passionate about things, engaged with the world in a way that I found both admirable and exhausting.

"You should have come with me," she said, and there was something almost wistful in her tone. "You would have liked it."

"You know I'm useless at art stuff. I would have just stood there nodding and pretending to understand what 'juxtaposition of post-modern aesthetics' means."

"You don't have to understand it. You just have to feel it."

"I don't feel anything before noon. You know this."

She smiled, but it seemed dimmer than usual. "Yeah. I know."

There was a pause—the kind of pause that felt weighted, like there was something neither of us was saying. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, suddenly very interested in the pattern on my coffee cup.

"So," I said, desperate to fill the silence. "Work. We should probably talk about work. Like adults. Who have jobs."

"Right. Work." Beryl shook her head slightly, as if clearing it. "Actually, speaking of work—did you hear about the new client?"

"The tech startup? Yeah, Priya mentioned something about it. Apparently they're a nightmare to work with."

"That's an understatement. Their CEO called three times yesterday demanding changes to a proposal we haven't even finished yet. And their head of marketing—" She stopped abruptly.

I raised an eyebrow. "What about their head of marketing?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Beryl. You have the world's worst poker face. What is it?"

She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she sighed. "You're going to find out anyway, so I might as well tell you. Their head of marketing is Kiyan Sharma."

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Kiyan Sharma.

The room seemed to narrow, the ambient noise of the café fading to a dull buzz. I was suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat, too fast and too loud in my chest.

"Kiyan," I repeated, my voice strange and distant. "Kiyan Sharma. As in—"

"As in your high school Kiyan, yes." Beryl's expression was careful, guarded. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I only found out on Friday and I didn't want to ruin your weekend."

"How thoughtful of you." The words came out sharper than I intended. "So he's going to be our client. He's going to be in our office. Having meetings. With us."

"Technically with the marketing team. So yes, with us."

I set my coffee down because my hands were shaking and I didn't trust myself not to spill it. Kiyan Sharma. The name alone was enough to send me spiraling back five years, to a version of myself I'd worked very hard to bury.

"Asenath." Beryl's voice was soft. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "It was five years ago. We were kids. I'm sure he's completely different now. Probably doesn't even remember me."

"He definitely remembers you."

"How do you know that?"

She hesitated. "Because I saw him on Friday. When he came in for the initial meeting."

"You *saw* him? And you're just now telling me this?"

"I was trying to figure out the best way to bring it up!"

"The best way to bring up that the guy who ruined my life is about to become a regular presence in our workplace? There's no good way to bring that up, Beryl. You just say it. Like ripping off a bandaid. A horrible, soul-crushing bandaid."

Beryl reached across the table and grabbed my hand. Her palm was warm against mine, grounding. "He didn't ruin your life. He did a shitty thing when you were both seventeen. That's not the same as ruining your life."

"He told everyone I—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Even now, five years later, the memory of it made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

"I know what he told everyone. I was there, remember? I was the one who held you while you cried for three days straight. I was the one who keyed his car."

"You keyed his car?"

"In retrospect, not my finest moment. But he deserved it." She squeezed my hand. "My point is, you survived. You graduated. You went to university and killed it and got a job and built a life. Whatever he did or didn't do, you came out on top. Don't give him the power to undo all of that."

I looked at our intertwined fingers, at the contrast of her skin against mine. Beryl had always been my rock, my constant. Through every terrible thing that had happened in my life, she'd been there. Steady and unwavering and impossibly, frustratingly loyal.

"When did you get so wise?" I asked quietly.

"I've always been wise. You just never listen."

"That's fair."

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "We should go. If we're late, Priya will have our heads."

"Yeah." I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. "Yeah, okay. Let's go be professional adults who don't have emotional breakdowns over boys from high school."

"That's the spirit."

We gathered our things and headed for the door. But as we walked out into the morning sunlight, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change. That the careful equilibrium I'd built over the past five years was about to be shattered.

Kiyan Sharma was back in my life.

And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it.

---

The office was a converted warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial lighting and carefully curated "creative chaos." It was the kind of space that had been designed by someone who had very strong opinions about open floor plans and collaborative workspaces. As someone who valued privacy and quiet, I found it personally offensive.

Beryl and I arrived at 8:52—early by my standards, late by hers. The morning rush was in full swing, people milling around the kitchen area with coffee cups and laptops, engaged in the kind of small talk that I actively avoided.

"Asenath! Beryl!" Priya appeared from nowhere, her dark hair swept up in an elaborate bun, her glasses slightly askew. She was our project manager, which meant she existed in a permanent state of controlled panic. "Good, you're here. Conference room in ten minutes. Emergency team meeting."

"What emergency?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

"The Nexus account. Apparently their leadership wants to 'realign expectations' before we move forward." She made air quotes around the phrase with barely concealed contempt. "Which means they want to change everything we've done so far without adjusting the timeline or budget."

"Classic."

"Welcome to Monday. Conference room. Ten minutes. Don't be late."

She disappeared as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving me and Beryl standing in the entrance like two people who'd just been given a death sentence.

"This is going to be bad," Beryl said.

"This is going to be so bad."

"He's going to be there."

"I know."

"Are you going to be okay?"

I turned to look at her, really look at her. Her brow was furrowed with concern, her hand half-raised as if she wanted to touch me but wasn't sure if she should. She cared about me so much—it was written all over her face. And I didn't know what to do with that.

"I'm going to be fine," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "I'm a professional. I can handle one meeting with an ex-whatever from high school."

"He wasn't your ex. You never actually dated."

"Which makes it worse, somehow. At least if we'd dated, there would be closure. Instead, it's just this... thing. This unresolved, mortifying thing that haunts me every time I think about it."

Beryl opened her mouth to respond, but we were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening behind us.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

Because there he was. Kiyan Sharma, in the flesh, walking into my place of work like he had every right to be there. Which, technically, he did. But that was beside the point.

He looked different than I remembered—older, obviously, but more than that. He'd grown into his features, the awkward angles of adolescence smoothed into something more refined. His hair was shorter, professionally styled, and he was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He looked like someone who had gotten everything he wanted out of life.

He also looked like someone who had just seen a ghost.

"Asenath?" His voice cracked on my name, and for a second—just a second—I saw the boy he used to be underneath the polished exterior. "I didn't know you worked here."

"Surprise," I said flatly.

"I—wow. This is—" He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the careful styling. "It's really good to see you."

"Is it?"

Beryl's hand found mine, squeezing gently. A reminder to behave. I squeezed back, acknowledging the message even if I didn't fully agree with it.

"I mean it," Kiyan said, taking a step closer. "I've thought about you a lot over the years. I've wanted to reach out, but I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me. After everything."

"After you told the entire school that I threw myself at you and you rejected me because I wasn't 'worth the effort'?" The words spilled out before I could stop them. "After you turned me into a joke? Yeah, I can see why you might be hesitant to reach out."

He flinched. Actually flinched, like I'd slapped him. Good.

"That's not—" He stopped, took a breath. "That's not what happened. Not exactly. And I know that's not an excuse. I know I can't take back what I did. But I was seventeen and stupid and I made the worst decision of my life. I've regretted it every day since."

"Congratulations on your regret. I'm sure it's very fulfilling."

"Asenath." Beryl's voice was quiet but firm. "Conference room in five minutes."

Right. The meeting. The reason we were all here, standing in this uncomfortable tableau like characters in a play no one wanted to be in.

"We should go," I said, not looking at Kiyan. "Priya doesn't like it when we're late."

I walked away without waiting for a response, pulling Beryl along with me. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and I felt like I might throw up or cry or scream. Maybe all three.

But I kept walking.

That was the thing about being the girl everyone notices. You learn very quickly how to pretend you don't care. How to hold your head high when everything inside you is falling apart. How to smile like nothing is wrong when everything is spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

I'd had a lot of practice.

---

The conference room was glass-walled, which meant everyone outside could watch our meeting like it was some kind of corporate reality show. I hated it. I hated everything about this day.

We were arranged around the table in an order that seemed designed to maximize my discomfort. Me on one side with Beryl, Priya at the head, and two empty chairs directly across from us that I knew—with a certainty that made my stomach churn—were reserved for Kiyan and whoever else from Nexus had decided to grace us with their presence.

"Okay," Priya said, shuffling through her notes. "Before they get here, let me brief you on the current situation. Nexus is a tech startup focused on AI-driven productivity tools. They're about to launch their flagship product and they want a full marketing campaign. Website refresh, social media strategy, launch event, the works."

"And they're impossible to work with," Beryl added.

"And they're impossible to work with, yes. Their CEO changes his mind every five minutes and their head of marketing—" She glanced at me. "Well, you've met him."

"Unfortunately."

Priya's eyes narrowed, clearly sensing there was a story there, but she didn't ask. Professional boundaries. I appreciated it.

The door opened, and Kiyan walked in, followed by another man I didn't recognize. They took their seats across from us, and I made a point of looking at my notes instead of at Kiyan's face.

"Thank you all for meeting on such short notice," the other man said. He introduced himself as Derek Chen, CEO of Nexus, and immediately launched into a monologue about his "vision" for the company that was equal parts ambitious and delusional.

I tuned him out, focusing instead on not making eye contact with Kiyan. Which was difficult, because I could feel him looking at me. That particular sensation of being watched, of someone's attention focused on you like a laser. I'd forgotten how unsettling it was.

"Asenath."

I looked up. Everyone was staring at me.

"Sorry, what?"

"Derek was asking about your experience with launch campaigns," Priya said, her tone suggesting this was not the first time she'd said my name.

"Right. Yes. Launch campaigns." I scrambled to recover. "I worked on the Verity Cosmetics rebrand last year. Coordinated their product launch across multiple platforms, increased their social engagement by 47%."

"Impressive," Derek said. "Kiyan speaks very highly of this firm's capabilities."

I glanced at Kiyan without meaning to. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't read—something between hope and resignation.

"We've known each other a long time," he said quietly. "I've always known Asenath was destined for great things."

The compliment landed wrong, twisted by the history between us. Was this his version of an apology? Praising me in a professional setting to make up for tearing me down in a personal one?

"Let's focus on the project," I said, more sharply than I intended. "What exactly are you looking for in terms of messaging?"

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of marketing jargon and carefully modulated tension. I took notes. I answered questions when directly addressed. I avoided Kiyan's gaze with the determination of someone defusing a bomb.

When it was finally over, I was out of my seat before anyone else had even moved.

"Asenath, wait."

Kiyan's voice followed me out of the conference room, into the open floor plan that offered absolutely no escape. I stopped, because running away in front of my coworkers would have been more embarrassing than whatever he was about to say.

"What."

"Can we talk? Privately?"

"We just talked. In a meeting. With many witnesses."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

I turned to face him. He was standing too close, his expensive cologne filling my senses with memories I'd worked hard to bury. The way he'd smiled at me in the hallway. The way I'd felt when I thought he might actually like me back. The crushing humiliation when I'd found out it was all a joke.

"I don't have anything to say to you," I said.

"Then let me say something to you. Please. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"Why should I give you anything?"

"Because I've spent five years wishing I could take back what I did. Because I was a stupid, insecure kid who did something unforgivable, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I need to at least try to explain." His voice cracked slightly. "Please, Asenath."

There was something in his eyes—genuine pain, or a very good imitation of it. And despite everything, despite all the anger and hurt and resentment, a part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. The part of me that had never gotten closure, that had replayed that night over and over in my head, trying to understand where it all went wrong.

"Not here," I said finally. "There's a coffee shop on the corner. After work. 6 PM. If you're even a minute late, I'm leaving."

"I'll be there. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I haven't decided if I'm going to listen or just throw coffee in your face."

A ghost of a smile crossed his features. "I'll take those odds."

He walked away, and I stood there in the middle of the office, feeling like I'd just agreed to something monumentally stupid.

"That looked intense."

Beryl appeared at my elbow, her expression carefully neutral.

"He wants to talk. To explain what happened in high school."

"And you agreed?"

"I don't know why. Temporary insanity. Glutton for punishment. Take your pick."

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on Kiyan's retreating figure. When she spoke again, her voice was strange, almost brittle.

"Just be careful. Okay?"

"Careful of what?"

She turned to look at me, and for a second, I saw something in her eyes that I couldn't identify. Something raw and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

"Just... be careful."

Before I could ask what she meant, she walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The rest of the day crawled by with agonizing slowness. I tried to focus on work—there were emails to send, proposals to draft, a million small tasks that required my attention—but my mind kept drifting to the meeting at 6 PM. What was Kiyan going to say? What could he possibly say that would make any of it okay?

And underneath that, another thought, persistent and troubling: what was going on with Beryl?

She'd been acting strange all day. Distant. Every time I tried to catch her eye across the office, she looked away. When I texted her asking if she wanted to get lunch, she said she had too much work. It was unlike her—Beryl, who always made time for me, who was always there when I needed her.

By the time 5:30 rolled around, I was a mess of nerves and confusion. I packed up my things slowly, watching Beryl at her desk across the room. She was staring at her computer screen, but her fingers weren't moving on the keyboard. Just sitting there. Frozen.

I walked over to her, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.

"Hey."

She looked up, her expression carefully composed. "Hey."

"I'm about to go. To meet Kiyan."

"I know."

Silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "You've been weird all day."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're doing that thing where you say you're fine but your face says you're definitely not fine."

She laughed, but it sounded forced. "I'm just tired. And worried about you, I guess. This thing with Kiyan... I don't want you to get hurt again."

"I can handle Kiyan."

"Can you?"

The question hung in the air. I didn't know how to answer it.

"I should go," I said finally. "I'll text you after. Tell you how it went."

"Yeah. Okay." She paused, then added, almost too quiet to hear: "Be careful, Asenath. With your heart."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded and walked away, feeling her eyes on my back the whole way to the door.

The coffee shop was nearly empty when I arrived—just a few stragglers nursing lattes and staring at laptop screens. I ordered a tea I didn't want and found a table in the back, away from the windows. If this conversation was going to be as uncomfortable as I expected, I didn't need an audience.

Kiyan arrived at 5:58. Two minutes early. He spotted me immediately and made his way over, his steps hesitant, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any moment.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

"I wasn't sure you'd actually show up."

"Neither was I." I gestured to the seat across from me. "Sit. Talk. You have five minutes."

He sat, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Up close, I could see the signs of stress—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Whatever he'd been doing for the past five years, it hadn't been entirely smooth sailing.

"I don't know where to start," he admitted.

"The beginning would be traditional."

He nodded, gathering his thoughts. "Do you remember the night of the winter formal? Junior year?"

As if I could forget. That night was seared into my memory, every detail preserved with painful clarity.

"I remember."

"I told you I liked you. That I wanted to be with you. And you—" He swallowed. "You said you felt the same way. And we kissed. Behind the bleachers, while everyone was inside dancing."

"I remember what happened, Kiyan. I was there."

"I know. I just..." He took a breath. "The next day, my friends found out. I don't know how—someone must have seen us, or I said something without realizing. And they started making fun of me. Saying I was punching above my weight, that you were out of my league, that you'd never actually be interested in someone like me."

I stayed silent, waiting.

"I was seventeen and terrified. My whole identity was wrapped up in what my friends thought of me. And instead of standing up for myself—for us—I panicked. I told them it was a joke. That I'd been messing with you, seeing if I could get the pretty girl to fall for me." His voice cracked. "I told them you were the one who'd thrown yourself at me, and I'd rejected you. That you weren't worth the effort."

"And they believed you."

"Everyone believed me. Because I was charming and popular and no one questioned me. And by the time I realized what I'd done—the rumors had already spread. Everyone was talking about it. Laughing about it."

"Laughing at me," I corrected. "They were laughing at me. I was the punchline of a joke I didn't even know I was part of."

"I know. And I'm so sorry, Asenath. I was a coward. I threw you under the bus to protect my own ego, and you didn't deserve any of it."

I looked at him, at this man who had once been a boy I'd thought I loved. He looked broken. Genuinely, thoroughly broken.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I've spent five years hating myself for what I did. Because every relationship I've had since then has failed, and I think it's because I know, deep down, that I'm not worthy of love. Not after what I did to you." He reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of mine. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn't your fault. That it was never your fault. You were brave enough to be vulnerable with me, and I repaid you by destroying you. That's on me. All of it."

The anger I'd been carrying for five years—that hot, burning resentment—flickered and dimmed. Not gone. Maybe not ever gone. But something shifted.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," I said honestly. "What you did... it changed me. Made me afraid to trust people. Afraid to let anyone in."

"I know."

"But I appreciate you telling me. The truth. Even if it's five years too late."

He nodded, his eyes wet. "Can we... I don't know. Start over? Not as whatever we were before. Just as colleagues. Maybe even friends, someday."

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"I don't know," I said finally. "Maybe. But it's going to take time. And you have to understand—I don't owe you anything. Not friendship. Not forgiveness. Nothing."

"I understand."

"Okay." I stood up, grabbing my bag. "I should go."

"Asenath." He stood too, his expression earnest. "For what it's worth—I really did like you. Back then. It wasn't a lie, the part where I said I wanted to be with you. That was real."

I didn't know what to do with that information. So I just nodded and walked out, leaving him standing alone in the empty coffee shop.

The walk home was long. I took the scenic route, needing time to process everything. Kiyan's confession. The pain in his voice. The truth that should have been told five years ago.

And underneath it all, a question that wouldn't leave me alone:

If he really had liked me—if that night behind the bleachers had been real—what did that mean for everything that came after?

My phone buzzed. A text from Beryl.

**Beryl:** *how did it go?*

I stared at the message for a long time before responding.

**Me:** *complicated. can we talk tomorrow?*

**Beryl:** *of course. i'm here. always.*

I put my phone away and kept walking, the city lights flickering to life around me like stars falling to earth.

I didn't have answers. Not yet. But for the first time in five years, I felt like I might be close to finding them.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered that the answers might not be what I expected.

******** To be continued*******

MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 2: A Face I Can't Forget

---

Sleep didn't come easy that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to every question I'd ever had, watching shadows shift as cars passed on the street below. My mind was a hamster wheel of thoughts, spinning endlessly over the same ground without getting anywhere.

Kiyan had liked me. Actually liked me. The kiss behind the bleachers, the way he'd looked at me, the whispered promises—none of it had been a game. He'd been seventeen and terrified and had made the worst possible choice, but underneath all of it, his feelings had been real.

I didn't know what to do with that information.

For five years, I'd built my entire narrative around being the victim of a cruel joke. The pretty girl who'd been too naive, too trusting, too desperate for validation. I'd used that story as armor, as justification for keeping people at arm's length. *See what happens when you let someone in? They destroy you.*

But now that story had cracks in it. Now there was nuance where there had only been black and white. And I wasn't sure if that made things better or infinitely worse.

I rolled onto my side, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. 2:47 AM. Fantastic.

My thumb hovered over the messages app, over Beryl's name. She'd be asleep by now—she was one of those infuriating people who went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up refreshed and ready to face the day. But the urge to reach out was overwhelming. To hear her voice, even just through text. To have her tell me everything was going to be okay.

*She said she's always here,* I reminded myself. *But that doesn't mean you should abuse the privilege.*

I put the phone down.

Then picked it up again.

Then put it down.

"This is pathetic," I muttered to the darkness. "You are a grown woman. Act like one."

I closed my eyes and tried to force my brain into submission. Counted sheep. Counted backwards from one hundred. Tried that thing where you systematically relax every muscle in your body, starting from your toes.

Nothing worked.

Because every time I started to drift off, I saw his face. Not Kiyan's—though he made plenty of appearances in my mental torture session. No, the face that kept floating up from the depths of my subconscious was different. Softer. Warmer. Eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled.

Beryl.

*Be careful with your heart.*

What had she meant by that? The words had been playing on loop in my head all evening, a puzzle I couldn't solve. Beryl wasn't the type for cryptic warnings. She was direct, sometimes brutally so. If she had something to say, she said it.

Except, apparently, when she didn't.

I finally fell asleep somewhere around 4 AM, my dreams a confusing tangle of coffee shops and conference rooms and two faces that kept blurring into each other until I couldn't tell them apart.

---

The alarm was an assault.

I slapped at my phone with the desperate flailing of someone who was not ready to be conscious. It took three attempts to actually turn it off, by which point I was awake enough to register the pounding headache behind my eyes and the general sense of existential dread that came with sleeping for approximately twelve minutes.

"Coffee," I croaked to no one. "Need coffee."

The shower helped marginally. By the time I'd gone through my morning routine—abbreviated version, because I was running late and also didn't care—I almost felt like a functioning human being. Almost.

My phone buzzed as I was wrestling my hair into something approximating a ponytail.

**Beryl:** *running late. meet at the office instead of coffee?*

I frowned at the screen. Beryl was never late. She was pathologically early to everything, the kind of person who showed up to parties before the host was ready. For her to be running late was practically a sign of the apocalypse.

**Me:** *everything ok?*

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

**Beryl:** *yeah. just overslept. see you there.*

Something about the message felt off. Too short, too casual, too unlike the Beryl I knew. But I didn't have time to analyze it—I was already twenty minutes behind schedule and my mother was making pointed comments about breakfast that I was going to have to ignore.

"I'm leaving!" I called, grabbing my bag and heading for the door.

"Without eating? Asenath, you need—"

"Love you, bye!"

I escaped before she could finish the lecture. Parental concern was great and all, but not when I was running on four hours of sleep and the emotional equivalent of a garbage fire.

The walk to work was usually my favorite part of the day—fifteen minutes of relative peace before the chaos of the office consumed me. But today, I couldn't enjoy it. My mind kept circling back to the same questions, the same faces, the same overwhelming sense that my life was about to get very, very complicated.

I was so lost in thought that I almost walked right past the office building. Almost walked right into the person standing outside it, too.

"Whoa, careful!"

Hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. I looked up, an apology already forming on my lips, and froze.

Kiyan.

Of course it was Kiyan.

"Are you stalking me?" I demanded, stepping back out of his reach. "Because that would be very on-brand for you."

"I'm not stalking you. I have a meeting." He held up his hands in surrender. "This is my client's office. I'm allowed to be here."

"At 8:30 in the morning?"

"The meeting's at nine. I wanted to grab coffee first." He paused, looking at me with an expression that was irritatingly close to concern. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"That's none of your business."

"You have circles under your eyes."

"They're designer circles. Very fashionable. All the celebrities are doing it."

He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine—and something twisted in my chest. I remembered that laugh. Remembered how it had made me feel, back when I'd been stupid enough to think he was laughing with me instead of at me.

"Same old Asenath," he said, shaking his head. "You always did deflect with humor."

"It's a defense mechanism. Very healthy. My therapist would be proud."

"You have a therapist?"

"I should have a therapist. After everything you put me through." The words came out sharper than I intended, and I saw him flinch. Good. Let him flinch. "Sorry, was that too real for your morning coffee?"

"No." He met my eyes, his expression serious. "I deserve that. I deserve worse than that, honestly."

"Glad we're on the same page."

An awkward silence descended. I should have walked away—should have gone inside and started my day and pretended this encounter had never happened. But something kept me rooted to the spot. Some masochistic need to understand, to unravel the mystery of who Kiyan Sharma actually was.

"Can I ask you something?" I heard myself say.

"Anything."

"Why did you come back? To this city, I mean. There are marketing jobs everywhere. You didn't have to work with the same company where your high school victim is employed."

He was quiet for a moment, considering the question. "Honestly? I didn't know you worked here. Not until I walked in for that first meeting and saw your name on the door."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"I came back because this is home. My family's here. My roots are here." He paused. "And because I was tired of running away from my past. I figured if I was going to become a better person, I had to face the things I'd done. The people I'd hurt."

"How very after-school special of you."

"I know how it sounds. But it's the truth." He took a step closer, and I forced myself not to retreat. "Seeing you yesterday... it wasn't part of the plan. But maybe it should have been. Maybe the universe was telling me I couldn't move forward until I'd made things right with you."

"The universe," I repeated flatly. "You think the universe arranged for us to end up at the same company so you could apologize for being a terrible person five years ago."

"When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."

"That's because it is ridiculous."

"Fair enough." He smiled, and there it was again—that twist in my chest, that involuntary response to his presence. I hated it. Hated how my body remembered things my mind wanted to forget. "I should let you get to work. But, Asenath?"

"What."

"I meant what I said yesterday. I'm going to prove to you that I've changed. However long it takes."

He walked past me into the building, leaving me standing on the sidewalk like an idiot, the morning sun warm on my face and my heart doing things I absolutely did not authorize.

---

The office was already buzzing when I arrived—that particular energy of people who had too much to do and not enough time to do it. I made a beeline for the kitchen, desperate for caffeine, and found Priya already there, stirring her third cup of the morning with the intensity of someone performing a ritual sacrifice.

"You look terrible," she said by way of greeting.

"Thanks. It's a new look I'm trying."

"Is it stress? Because if it's stress, I have some very strong opinions about work-life balance that HR has asked me to stop sharing."

"It's not stress. It's—" I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Complicated personal stuff."

Priya's eyes narrowed. "Does this complicated personal stuff have anything to do with the way you and our new client were looking at each other yesterday?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There was tension. Visible, palpable tension. The kind of tension that usually means either you want to kill someone or kiss them. Sometimes both."

"Neither," I said firmly. "We knew each other in high school. It was a long time ago."

"Uh-huh." She didn't look convinced. "Well, whatever it is, keep it out of the conference room. We can't afford to lose this account because of teenage drama."

"It wasn't—" I stopped, realizing there was no way to finish that sentence without revealing too much. "Fine. Professional. I can do professional."

"See that you do."

She swept out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my coffee and my spiraling thoughts. I took a long sip, letting the caffeine work its magic, and tried to center myself. Today was going to be fine. I was going to be fine. I was a competent adult who could handle running into her high school almost-boyfriend at her place of work without having a complete mental breakdown.

The pep talk was only moderately convincing.

I headed to my desk, expecting to find Beryl already there. She wasn't. Her chair was empty, her computer dark, her mug from yesterday still sitting on the desk where she'd left it.

I checked my phone. No new messages.

This was officially weird.

"Has anyone seen Beryl?" I asked the general vicinity.

Marcus, the junior copywriter who sat two desks over, looked up from his screen. "She's in the small conference room. Been there since she got in."

"The small conference room? Why?"

"Don't know. She seemed upset about something."

My stomach dropped. Beryl, upset. Beryl, who was always steady and calm and together. Beryl, who had been acting strange since yesterday morning.

I abandoned my desk and headed for the small conference room—the one tucked in the back corner that people used for private phone calls and crying sessions they didn't want witnessed. The door was closed, the blinds drawn.

I knocked softly. "Beryl? It's me."

Silence. Then: "Give me a minute."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just need—" Her voice cracked. "I just need a minute."

She was crying. Beryl was crying, alone in a conference room, and she didn't want me to see.

"I'm coming in," I said, and opened the door before she could protest.

She was sitting at the table, her face turned away, one hand pressed to her eyes. Even from this angle, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her whole body was curled in on itself like she was trying to make herself smaller.

"Beryl." I crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside her. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. I'm just being stupid."

"You're not stupid. You're never stupid." I reached out and put my hand on her arm. "Talk to me. Please."

She finally looked at me, and my heart seized. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks damp with tears she'd tried to wipe away. She looked shattered in a way I'd never seen before.

"It's really nothing," she said, her voice thick. "I just... I had a moment. It happens."

"A moment about what?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. The struggle on her face was almost painful to watch—like there were words trapped inside her that she desperately wanted to release but couldn't.

"You and Kiyan," she finally said.

I blinked. "What about me and Kiyan?"

"Yesterday. After work. You went to talk to him."

"Yeah. He wanted to explain what happened in high school."

"And? How did it go?"

"It was... intense. He told me the truth about what happened. Why he said those things." I paused, trying to read her expression. "He said he actually did like me. That he panicked when his friends found out and lied to protect his ego."

Something flickered across her face—there and gone too quickly to identify. "And you believed him?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He seemed genuine."

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the table. "So what now? Are you going to forgive him? Start over? Give him another chance?"

"I don't know that either. It's all still really fresh." I squeezed her arm gently. "But what does this have to do with why you're upset?"

The silence stretched out, filling the room like water rising. Beryl sat motionless, staring at nothing, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.

"Do you remember," she said quietly, "when we were fifteen?"

The question caught me off guard. "That's a pretty broad timeframe."

"The summer before sophomore year. When your family went to that beach house and you invited me along."

I did remember. A week of sun and sand and staying up too late, the two of us sharing a room and talking until dawn. It had been one of the best weeks of my life.

"Yeah, I remember. What about it?"

Beryl took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"That was the week I realized I was in love with you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I sat there, frozen, unable to process what I was hearing.

"We were on the beach," she continued, not looking at me. "It was late—maybe midnight. Everyone else was asleep, but we'd snuck out to look at the stars. You were lying on your back in the sand, pointing out constellations you'd learned from some book, making up stories about them. And I looked at you, and I thought... this is it. This is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with."

"Beryl—"

"I know. I know." She laughed, but it was a broken sound. "You were my best friend. You had a crush on Kiyan. You were straight, or at least I assumed you were. I told myself it would pass. That it was just a phase, just the intensity of teenage friendship blown out of proportion."

"Why didn't you ever—"

"Tell you?" She finally looked at me, and the pain in her eyes made me want to cry. "Because I was terrified. Terrified of losing you. You were the most important person in my life, and I couldn't risk destroying that for something you didn't feel. So I buried it. Pushed it down. Convinced myself that being your friend was enough."

"For seven years?"

"For seven years." She smiled sadly. "I got really good at pretending."

I didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to feel. Everything I thought I knew about our friendship was being rewritten in real-time, fifteen years of memories suddenly cast in a different light.

"When Kiyan did what he did to you in high school," Beryl said, "part of me was relieved. I know that's terrible. I know I should have only felt anger on your behalf. But there was this small, awful part of me that was glad he'd ruined his chances with you. That thought maybe, if you stopped looking at him, you might start looking at me."

"Beryl..."

"But you didn't. You pulled away from everyone, including me. And I thought—I thought I'd lost you anyway. Not to him, but to what he'd done. So I backed off. Gave you space. Waited for you to come back to me."

"And I did," I said softly.

"You did. And things went back to normal, more or less. We were friends again. Best friends. And I told myself it was enough." Her voice cracked. "Until yesterday. Until I saw the way you looked at him. Until you agreed to meet him alone."

"It wasn't—I wasn't—"

"I know. I know it was just a conversation. But watching you walk out that door, knowing you were going to him..." She pressed her hand to her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. "It felt like losing you all over again. To the same person. And I couldn't—I just couldn't—"

She broke off, tears spilling down her cheeks. I sat there, stunned and overwhelmed and completely out of my depth.

Beryl loved me. Had loved me for seven years. Had watched me pine over Kiyan, had comforted me when he destroyed me, had been quietly, desperately in love with me the whole time.

And I'd had no idea.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping at her face. "I shouldn't have told you. It's not fair to dump this on you when you're already dealing with so much. I just—I couldn't hold it in anymore. Seeing you with him, seeing the way you still react to him after everything he did... I couldn't keep pretending."

"Beryl." I reached out and took her hands in mine. They were trembling. "Look at me."

She did, her eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"You're my best friend," I said slowly, carefully, aware that every word mattered. "You've been my best friend for fifteen years. You've seen me at my worst. You've held me together when I was falling apart. Whatever happens—whatever this means—that's never going to change."

"You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

Something in her expression shifted—hope warring with fear, vulnerability she'd kept hidden for so long finally exposed. "You don't hate me?"

"I could never hate you."

"But you don't—" She stopped, swallowed. "You don't feel the same way."

I thought about it. Really thought about it. Not just a reflexive denial, but a genuine examination of my own feelings.

Did I love Beryl? Yes, absolutely. She was family in every way that mattered.

But was I *in love* with her?

I'd never considered it. Never allowed myself to consider it. She was Beryl—constant, reliable, always there. The background radiation of my life, so fundamental to my existence that I'd stopped noticing it the way you stop noticing oxygen.

But now, sitting here, holding her hands and watching the tears track down her cheeks... something stirred. Something that might have been awareness. Or curiosity. Or the first trembling notes of something I didn't have a name for yet.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "I've never... I never thought about you that way. About anyone that way, really. Since Kiyan, I've kind of been closed off to the whole romance thing."

"I know."

"But that doesn't mean—" I struggled to find the right words. "It doesn't mean I couldn't. It just means I haven't. Yet."

Her eyes widened slightly. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I need time. To process all of this. To figure out what I actually feel, about you, about Kiyan, about everything." I squeezed her hands. "I'm not saying yes. But I'm not saying no either. Can you live with that?"

She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching my face like she was trying to find something hidden there. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"I've waited seven years," she said. "I can wait a little longer."

"Thank you. For telling me. For trusting me with this."

"Thank you for not running away."

I laughed despite myself—a release of tension that had been building since the moment she'd said those impossible words. "Where would I run? You're my ride home half the time."

She laughed too, watery but real, and something settled between us. Not resolution—this was far from resolved—but acknowledgment. We were on new ground now, unknown territory, but at least we were navigating it together.

"We should probably get back to work," I said reluctantly. "Before people start wondering if we've both quit."

"Right. Work. Being productive. That thing we're supposed to do." She wiped her eyes one more time and took a deep breath. "How do I look? Presentable?"

"Like you've been crying at work. But in a very chic, fashion-forward way."

"Perfect. That's exactly the aesthetic I was going for."

We stood, gathering ourselves for the transition back to normalcy. At the door, I paused, turning to look at her.

"Beryl?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth—if I was going to fall in love with anyone, you'd be a really good choice."

Her smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. "Noted."

---

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of distraction and second-guessing. I sat at my desk, ostensibly working on the Nexus proposal, but my mind kept drifting to the conversation in the conference room. To Beryl, sitting three desks away, acting like everything was normal when nothing was normal at all.

To the question I couldn't stop asking myself: what do I actually want?

Kiyan was the obvious choice in some ways. He was handsome, successful, and apparently had been harboring genuine feelings for me this whole time. The romantic narrative was right there, gift-wrapped and ready: high school sweethearts torn apart by circumstances, reuniting years later to finally get their happy ending.

But it wasn't that simple. Nothing about Kiyan was simple. He'd hurt me in ways that still echoed, still shaped the person I was today. Could I really trust him again, even if he had changed? Could I let myself be vulnerable with someone who had already proven how easily he could destroy me?

And then there was Beryl.

Beryl, who had never hurt me. Who had been there through everything, steady and unwavering. Who had loved me in silence for seven years, never asking for anything in return.

I'd never thought about her romantically—that was true. But I'd also never thought about why I hadn't. Was it because the feelings genuinely weren't there? Or was it because I'd been so focused on Kiyan, so obsessed with the dramatic, painful kind of love, that I'd missed the quiet, constant love right in front of me?

I didn't have answers. Just more questions, spiraling endlessly like water down a drain.

"You're staring at your screen like it personally offended you."

I looked up to find Marcus hovering at the edge of my desk, holding a stack of papers and looking concerned.

"Sorry, what?"

"The Nexus brief? Priya needs it by noon."

"Right. Yes. The brief." I glanced at my monitor, where exactly zero progress had been made on said brief. "I'm almost done."

"You haven't typed anything in twenty minutes."

"It's a very intensive mental drafting process."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "If you need help, just let me know. I'm supposed to be doing research for the social media strategy anyway."

"Thanks, Marcus. I'll let you know."

He wandered off, and I forced myself to focus. Compartmentalization. That was the key. Put all the confusing romantic entanglements in a box, shove the box in a corner, and deal with it later. Preferably after I'd had more than four hours of sleep and at least three more cups of coffee.

I managed to produce something resembling a coherent brief by 11:45, sending it off to Priya with fifteen minutes to spare. Small victories.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

**Unknown:** *lunch? there's a thai place around the corner. -K*

My heart did that annoying thing again, the one where it sped up without my permission. K. Kiyan. He'd gotten my number somehow—probably from the work directory, which was technically a misuse of company resources but also exactly the kind of thing he would do.

I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries. I should—

**Me:** *fine. 12:30.*

So much for should.

I glanced over at Beryl's desk. She was on the phone, nodding along to whoever was on the other end, her expression neutrally professional. She didn't see me looking.

Which was good, because I wasn't sure what she'd see on my face if she did.

---

The Thai place was tiny and crowded, filled with the lunch rush of office workers seeking refuge from their desks. Kiyan was already there when I arrived, seated at a table barely big enough for two, looking entirely too comfortable for someone meeting his high school victim for pad thai.

"You came," he said, standing as I approached.

"Stop acting surprised every time I show up somewhere. It's weird."

"Can't help it. I keep expecting you to come to your senses and tell me to go to hell."

"The day is young."

I sat down across from him, putting my bag on the floor and picking up the laminated menu without really reading it. The restaurant was loud enough to provide cover for conversation but not so loud that we'd have to shout. Perfect for potentially awkward lunch meetings with complicated romantic histories.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Kiyan started. "About proving I've changed."

"And?"

"I realized I was going about it wrong. Telling you I've changed doesn't mean anything. Words are cheap—I proved that pretty thoroughly in high school." He leaned forward, his expression earnest. "So instead of telling you, I'm going to show you. Through my actions. In our professional interactions. In how I treat you and everyone around me."

"Very mature of you."

"I'm trying. I know I have a lot to make up for." He paused as the waiter approached. We ordered—pad thai for me, green curry for him—and the waiter disappeared into the chaos of the kitchen.

"Can I ask you something?" Kiyan said once we were alone again.

"You keep asking if you can ask things. Just ask."

"Your friend. Beryl. You two seem close."

Every muscle in my body tensed. "We are close. We've been friends since we were seven."

"Just friends?"

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to address. I thought about Beryl's confession, about the tears on her cheeks, about the seven years of silence and sacrifice.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because she looks at you like..." He trailed off, seeming to consider his words. "Like you're the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise."

"She's my best friend."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough. I didn't mean to pry. I just noticed something, and I wondered."

"Well, stop wondering. It's not your business."

The food arrived, providing a convenient excuse to stop talking. I focused on my pad thai with unnecessary intensity, twirling noodles around my fork and trying not to think about the fact that Kiyan—of all people—had noticed what I'd missed for fifteen years.

Was it really that obvious? Had everyone seen the way Beryl looked at me except me?

"I'm sorry," Kiyan said after a few minutes of silent eating. "I overstepped."

"You did."

"It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

More silence, more aggressive noodle consumption. Then:

"For what it's worth," Kiyan said quietly, "if there is something there... you could do a lot worse. She seems like a genuinely good person."

I looked up, surprised. "You're advocating for my best friend?"

"I'm advocating for your happiness. Whatever form that takes." He met my eyes, and there was something in his gaze that looked almost like acceptance. "I know I hurt you. I know I don't have any right to want things from you anymore. But I still want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me."

I didn't know what to say to that. It was possibly the most mature thing Kiyan had ever said in his life.

"Who are you?" I asked. "Because you're definitely not the Kiyan I remember."

"I told you. I've changed." He smiled, a little sadly. "It took a lot of therapy and a lot of mistakes, but I finally learned that other people's happiness doesn't diminish my own. That I can want good things for someone without expecting anything in return."

"That's... actually very healthy."

"My therapist would be so proud."

We both laughed, and something in the atmosphere shifted. The tension that had been coiling between us since yesterday started to ease. Not completely—there was still too much history for that—but enough that I could breathe a little easier.

"Okay," I said, setting down my fork. "Here's what I'm willing to offer. A clean slate. Not forgiveness—not yet—but a chance to start over. As colleagues. Maybe, eventually, as friends."

"What about more than friends?"

"Don't push your luck."

He grinned, and for a second, I saw the boy he'd been—charming and hopeful and entirely too confident for his own good. "I had to ask."

"And now you have your answer."

"Fair enough." He raised his water glass. "To clean slates."

I clinked my glass against his. "To clean slates. And to you not being a complete disappointment this time around."

"I'll do my best."

We finished our lunch with easier conversation—work gossip, updates on mutual acquaintances from high school, the kind of small talk that was comfortable precisely because it meant nothing. By the time we walked back to the office, I felt something I hadn't expected to feel in Kiyan's presence: calm.

It was weird. But not unwelcome.

---

Beryl was waiting at my desk when I returned.

"Where were you?"

"Lunch. There's a Thai place around the corner."

"With Kiyan." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, with Kiyan." I dropped my bag and sat down. "It wasn't a date. It was... I don't know what it was. A cease-fire negotiation, maybe."

Her expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the hurt lurking underneath. After everything she'd confessed this morning, me running off to lunch with the guy who'd destroyed me in high school probably looked pretty damning.

"Can we talk?" I asked. "Privately?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

We found an empty meeting room—not the small conference room from this morning, a different one—and closed the door behind us. The click of the latch felt significant, like we were sealing ourselves in with whatever was about to happen.

"Before you say anything," I started, "I need you to know that lunch with Kiyan wasn't about... romance. Or second chances. Or anything like that."

"What was it about?"

"Closure, I think. Or at least the beginning of it." I sat on the edge of the table, facing her. "He apologized again. Said he wants to prove he's changed through actions, not words. And I told him I'd give him a chance to do that. As colleagues. Nothing more."

"And you believed him?"

"I believe he wants to try. Whether he'll actually succeed is another question entirely."

Beryl was quiet for a moment, processing. Then she crossed the room and sat beside me on the table, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

"I'm sorry I reacted badly," she said. "This morning, when I told you... I put you in an impossible position. You're dealing with Kiyan suddenly being back in your life, and then I piled my feelings on top of it. That wasn't fair."

"It's okay."

"It's not. But thank you for saying that anyway." She turned to look at me, her expression soft. "I meant what I said before. I can wait. As long as you need."

"What if I never figure out what I feel?"

"Then I'll still be your best friend. That's not conditional on anything."

"Beryl..."

"I love you, Asenath. Not just romantically—although yes, also that—but as a person. As my favorite person in the entire world. Whatever happens between us, whatever you decide, that's never going to change."

I felt tears prick at my eyes and blinked them back. "Why are you so good? It's annoying."

She laughed, nudging my shoulder with hers. "Years of practice. Plus I'm trying to make you like me."

"I already like you, idiot."

"I know. But I'm aiming higher than like."

The words settled over me like a warm blanket. Beryl was here, solid and real and offering me something I'd been too blind to see. Kiyan was here too, complicated and changed and maybe—possibly—worth a second look.

And I was here, caught between two people who wanted me in different ways, both of them making me feel things I didn't fully understand.

"This is so confusing," I said.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault that I'm emotionally stunted."

"You're not emotionally stunted. You're just... careful. And given what happened to you, that makes complete sense."

I leaned my head against her shoulder without thinking about it. Her arm came up to wrap around me, pulling me closer. We sat like that for a while, neither of us speaking, just existing in the same space.

"Beryl?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't know what's going to happen. With any of this. But I want you to know—you're not just an option. You're not Plan B or a safety net or a backup if Kiyan doesn't work out." I lifted my head to look at her. "You're you. And that matters. More than I ever let myself realize."

Her eyes were shining. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it. I have a reputation for sarcasm to maintain."

She laughed, wiping at her eyes. "Noted."

We stayed there for a few more minutes, leaning against each other, before reality came knocking in the form of my phone buzzing with a reminder about a meeting.

"Back to the real world," I sighed.

"Unfortunately."

We stood, straightening clothes and wiping away any evidence of vulnerability. At the door, Beryl paused.

"Asenath?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For listening. For not freaking out. For being... you."

I smiled. "Always."

We walked back to our desks together, side by side, and I couldn't help but think that whatever happened next—whoever I ended up choosing—I was lucky to have people in my life who cared about me this much.

Even if figuring out what to do with that caring was going to be the hardest thing I'd ever done.

---

**End of Chapter 2**

MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 3: Beryl's Morning Routine

---

**BERYL**

My alarm goes off at 5:47 AM.

Not 5:45, because that feels too rounded, too deliberate. Not 5:50, because those extra three minutes matter. 5:47 is specific enough to feel intentional but arbitrary enough to remind me that life doesn't operate on neat intervals.

I've been setting my alarm for 5:47 since I was sixteen. It's one of those habits that started for a reason I've long since forgotten but persists out of sheer stubbornness.

The first thing I do when I wake up is not check my phone. This is a conscious choice—a small act of rebellion against the digital addiction that has claimed everyone I know. Instead, I lie still for exactly sixty seconds, eyes closed, breathing deeply, orienting myself to consciousness.

*You are Beryl Okonkwo. You are twenty-two years old. You are alive, and today is a new day, and whatever happened yesterday is over.*

It's a little ritual, a grounding exercise. My therapist recommended it years ago, during that rough patch in high school when anxiety had me in a chokehold. I've kept it up ever since, even on mornings when I don't feel like I need it.

Today, I definitely need it.

Because yesterday, I told Asenath I was in love with her.

The memory hits me like a splash of cold water—the conference room, the tears, the words I'd kept locked away for seven years finally spilling out of me like water through a broken dam. Her face, shocked and uncertain. Her hands, warm around mine. Her voice, saying words I never expected to hear.

*I don't know. I've never thought about you that way.*

*But that doesn't mean I couldn't.*

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. She hadn't rejected me. She hadn't run away. She'd asked for time, which wasn't a yes but also wasn't a no. After seven years of silent longing, I could handle a little more uncertainty.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

My sixty seconds are up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and begin my routine.

---

The thing about routines is that they're comforting precisely because they're predictable. Every morning follows the same pattern, the same sequence of actions, the same small rituals that transform chaos into order.

5:48: Bathroom. Shower—exactly seven minutes, because any longer feels indulgent and any shorter doesn't get the job done. I use the lavender body wash that Asenath always says smells nice, the shampoo that keeps my locs healthy, the face cleanser that took me three years to find.

5:55: Skincare. Toner, serum, moisturizer. I used to think this was excessive until I hit twenty and my skin started staging rebellions. Now it's non-negotiable.

6:00: Hair. My locs are low-maintenance by design—I learned early that anything requiring daily styling was incompatible with my need for efficiency. Most mornings, I just pull them back into a neat ponytail. Today, I take a few extra minutes to arrange them properly, which probably says something about my subconscious state that I'm not ready to examine.

6:10: Clothes. I lay out my outfits the night before, organized by day of the week, which Asenath thinks is "adorably neurotic" but which saves me approximately fifteen minutes of decision fatigue per morning. Today is Wednesday, which means the olive green blouse and the tan trousers. Professional but not boring. Approachable but not informal.

6:25: Breakfast. This is where I allow myself some flexibility. Sometimes it's overnight oats, prepared the night before and waiting in the fridge. Sometimes it's eggs and toast if I'm feeling fancy. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—it's whatever's leftover in the fridge that vaguely constitutes nutrition.

Today, I'm not hungry. My stomach is a knot of nerves that has no interest in food. I force down a banana and some water anyway, because skipping meals is a slippery slope I learned about the hard way.

6:40: Final preparations. Bag packed, keys located, phone checked for anything urgent. This is when I usually send Asenath my good morning text—a habit that started so long ago I can't remember its origin, just that it feels wrong not to do it.

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over her name.

What do I even say? "Good morning, hope you slept well after I dropped a seven-year love confession on you"? "Hey, just casually checking in like everything's normal when literally nothing is normal"?

In the end, I type what I always type:

**Me:** *good morning sunshine ☀️ coffee before work?*

Her response comes faster than I expected.

**Asenath:** *definitely. usual spot?*

**Me:** *see you at 8:15*

**Asenath:** *you mean 8:30*

**Me:** *you know me so well*

I smile despite myself. This is good. This is normal. Whatever else has changed, we still have this—the easy banter, the rhythm of fifteen years of friendship.

But even as I think it, I know it's not quite true. Something has shifted. The air between us has a new charge, a tension that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there, and now we're both just aware of it.

I put my phone away and head out the door.

---

The coffee shop is busy when I arrive—the morning rush of people grabbing caffeine before their commutes, the scattered freelancers setting up camp for the day. I secure our usual table and order our usual drinks, my body moving through the familiar motions while my mind races elsewhere.

I keep replaying yesterday. Not just the confession, but everything after. The way Asenath had looked at me when she said I wasn't just an option. The way her head had rested against my shoulder in the meeting room, comfortable and trusting.

And then there's the part I can't stop thinking about: her lunch with Kiyan.

I know she said it wasn't romantic. I know she said it was about closure. But I also know Asenath—know how she gets around him, how her whole energy shifts when he's in the room. She might not realize it, but there's still something there. Some unfinished business that lunch conversations and clean slates won't fully resolve.

I should be jealous. Maybe I am jealous—there's definitely something ugly and green lurking in the pit of my stomach. But mostly, I'm scared. Scared that after seven years of waiting, after finally having the courage to say something, I'm going to lose her to the same person who hurt her before.

The bell over the door chimes, and there she is.

Asenath always enters a room like she's not aware of how people look at her—the casual confidence, the natural grace, the way attention just gravitates toward her without her trying. She's wearing a deep blue dress today that makes her skin glow, her hair loose around her shoulders in the waves I've always loved.

She spots me and smiles, and my heart does that thing it's been doing for seven years. That painful, wonderful squeeze that reminds me why I'm putting myself through all of this.

"You're early," she says, sliding into the seat across from me.

"You're on time. A miracle."

"Don't get used to it. I think I'm still running on adrenaline from yesterday." She wraps her hands around the coffee I ordered for her, breathing in the steam. "How are you doing? After... everything?"

The question is loaded with meaning, both of us acutely aware of what "everything" encompasses.

"I'm okay," I say. "A little terrified. A lot uncertain. But okay."

"Terrified of what?"

"Of having changed things between us. Of making things awkward." I pause, staring into my own cup. "Of you looking at me differently now."

"Beryl." She reaches across the table and takes my hand. It's such a simple gesture, one she's done a thousand times before, but now it feels charged with new significance. "I don't look at you differently. I look at you the same way I always have. I just... understand it better now."

"What does that mean?"

She's quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. "It means that when I think about you—which is a lot, by the way—I'm not just thinking 'oh, there's my best friend.' I'm thinking about what you told me. About what it means. About what it might mean for us."

My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure she can hear it. "And what have you concluded?"

"Nothing yet. I told you, I need time." But she's smiling, soft and uncertain and somehow hopeful. "What I do know is that I don't want to lose you. Whatever else happens, that's non-negotiable."

"You won't lose me. I promise."

"Same goes for you."

We sit there for a moment, hands linked across the table, the morning light streaming through the window and catching the highlights in her hair. If this were a movie, this would be the part where one of us leans in, where the tension finally breaks into something tangible.

But it's not a movie. It's real life, messy and complicated and full of uncertainties.

So instead, we drink our coffee, and we talk about work, and we carefully navigate around the elephant in the room. And somehow, impossibly, it feels okay. Different, but okay.

Baby steps.

---

The walk to the office is quiet but not uncomfortable. We fall into step beside each other naturally, the rhythm of years of friendship guiding our movements. Every now and then, our shoulders brush, and every time they do, I feel it like an electric shock.

"So," Asenath says as we approach the building, "how are we playing this at work? Should we act normal? Should we—"

"Normal," I say quickly. "Definitely normal. The last thing either of us needs is the office gossip mill getting wind of... whatever this is."

"Agreed. Normal. Professional." She pauses at the door, turning to look at me. "But maybe we can get lunch together? Just the two of us?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. Too forward, too presumptuous, too—

"Maybe," she says, and my brain short-circuits.

"Maybe?"

"I don't know what I'm doing, Beryl. I'm figuring this out as I go." She looks almost nervous, which is not an expression I'm used to seeing on her. "But having lunch with you sounds nice. And I want to spend time with you. And if that's a date, then... maybe it's a date."

I don't know what to say. Seven years of longing, and now she's standing here, looking at me like I'm something precious, saying maybe to things I never thought she'd consider.

"Lunch sounds great," I manage. "It's a date. Or a maybe-date. Or whatever you want to call it."

She laughs, and the tension breaks. "God, we're both disasters at this."

"Complete disasters. But at least we're disasters together."

We walk into the office side by side, and I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. Something that might be hope.

---

The morning passes in a blur of meetings and emails and the general chaos of agency life. I try to focus on work—there's a social media strategy to finalize, a client call to prepare for, a dozen small tasks that require my attention—but my mind keeps drifting to Asenath.

She's across the room, visible through the glass walls of the conference room where she's presenting something to Priya. I watch her gesture animatedly, her whole body engaged in whatever point she's making. Even from this distance, I can see the spark in her eyes, the passion she brings to everything she does.

This is the woman I've loved for seven years. The woman who might—possibly, potentially, maybe—be learning to love me back.

It still doesn't feel real.

"You're staring."

I jump, nearly knocking over my coffee. Marcus is standing beside my desk, an amused expression on his face.

"I'm not staring. I'm... observing the meeting. For professional reasons."

"Uh-huh. Is that why you've been watching the conference room for the past fifteen minutes without blinking?"

"I blinked. Several times."

"Beryl." He lowers his voice, leaning closer. "Everyone knows."

My blood runs cold. "Knows what?"

"That you and Asenath are..." He makes a vague gesture. "You know."

"We're not anything. We're friends. Best friends. Very normal, very platonic best friends."

"Sure. And I'm the Queen of England." He straightens up, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be cute together. The whole office is rooting for you."

"The whole—" I sputter. "There's nothing to root for! We're not—I don't—"

But he's already walking away, leaving me to contemplate exactly how transparent I've been for the past however-many-years.

The whole office is rooting for us.

Jesus Christ.

I bury my face in my hands and try to remember how to breathe.

---

Lunch arrives eventually, as lunches do. I spend the last hour before it obsessively checking my reflection in my phone camera, adjusting my hair, wondering if I should have worn something different. This is ridiculous—it's just lunch, the same lunch we've had hundreds of times before—but it feels different now. Weighted with possibility.

Asenath appears at my desk at exactly 12:30, which is practically a miracle for someone with her relationship to punctuality.

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

We end up at a little sandwich shop a few blocks away—far enough from the office to avoid colleagues, close enough that we're not wasting our entire lunch hour on the commute. It's a place we've been to before, nothing special, but today everything feels significant. The way the light hits the table. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The way she looks at me like she's really seeing me for the first time.

"So," she says, once we're settled with our food. "A maybe-date."

"A maybe-date," I confirm. "No pressure. Just two people who may or may not be on a date eating sandwiches together."

"Very romantic."

"I try."

She laughs, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders. This is still us—still easy, still comfortable. Whatever else is happening, we haven't lost that.

"Can I ask you something?" she says, growing more serious.

"Anything."

"When you realized... that you had feelings for me. How did you know? Like, what did it feel like?"

I consider the question carefully. It's not something I've ever had to articulate before—the feelings have just been there, constant and unchanging, like gravity.

"It wasn't one moment," I say slowly. "It was more like... a gradual awareness. Like waking up slowly instead of all at once." I pause, searching for the right words. "There was this day at the beach—I told you about it yesterday. We were looking at stars, and you were making up stories, and I just... knew. But when I look back, I can see all the signs before that. The way I always wanted to be near you. The way my heart raced when you smiled at me. The way everyone else just seemed less interesting by comparison."

Asenath is listening intently, her sandwich forgotten.

"I tried to tell myself it was just friendship," I continue. "That best friends feel like this about each other. But deep down, I knew it was more. I knew because I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. Not just as my friend—as my person. The person I wanted to wake up to and fall asleep with and build a future with."

"That's..." She swallows, her eyes bright. "That's a lot."

"I know. I'm sorry if it's overwhelming."

"Don't apologize." She reaches across the table and takes my hand again. It's becoming a habit, this hand-holding. I'm not complaining. "I asked because I'm trying to understand. To figure out what I feel."

"And what do you feel?"

She's quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing patterns on my palm.

"When I'm with you, I feel safe," she says finally. "Like nothing bad can happen as long as you're there. I feel happy—genuinely happy, not the performative kind I do for everyone else. I feel like I can be completely myself without worrying about what you'll think."

My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest.

"But I've always felt that way," she continues. "Since we were kids. And I never thought of it as... romantic. I thought it was just what best friendship felt like."

"It can be both," I say softly. "Love and friendship aren't mutually exclusive."

"I know. I'm starting to realize that." She looks at me, really looks at me, with an intensity that makes me want to look away and never look away at the same time. "When I think about you with someone else—dating someone, being in a relationship—I feel this... twist. Like something's wrong. Like that's not how it's supposed to be."

"And when you think about me with you?"

She doesn't answer right away. The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.

"It feels right," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "It feels like something clicking into place. Like an answer I didn't know I was looking for."

I don't know who moves first—maybe both of us, maybe neither—but suddenly we're leaning across the table, our faces inches apart. I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the slight tremble in her lower lip, the way her breath catches in her throat.

"Beryl..." she whispers.

"Yes?"

"I think... I think I want to kiss you."

The world stops. Time freezes. Every nerve in my body is screaming.

"Then kiss me," I say.

And she does.

It's soft at first—tentative, uncertain, both of us testing the waters. Her lips are warm against mine, tasting of the coffee she had earlier and something sweeter underneath. My hand comes up to cup her cheek, and I feel her lean into the touch, a small sound escaping her throat.

Then it deepens.

Seven years of longing, seven years of wanting, seven years of loving her from a distance—all of it pours into this moment. She kisses me like she's discovering something new, like she's finally understanding something she should have known all along. And I kiss her back with everything I have, with all the words I never said and all the feelings I kept hidden.

When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, stunned, like she can't quite believe what just happened.

"Wow," she says.

"Yeah," I agree. "Wow."

"That was..."

"Yeah."

She starts laughing—not nervously, but with genuine joy, the kind of laughter that comes from the release of long-held tension. I find myself laughing too, giddy and overwhelmed and happier than I've been in years.

"I just kissed my best friend," she says. "In a sandwich shop. At lunch."

"You did. Was it... okay?"

She looks at me like I've just asked the stupidest question in the history of questions.

"It was more than okay. It was..." She shakes her head, still smiling. "I need to process this. All of it. But yes, Beryl—it was definitely okay."

I don't know what this means for us going forward. I don't know if she's ready for a relationship, or if this was just curiosity, or if we're about to complicate our friendship beyond repair. But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

Right now, she kissed me. And it was okay. More than okay.

That's enough.

---

We walk back to the office in a daze, both of us replaying what just happened, neither of us quite able to look at the other without dissolving into incredulous laughter.

"We should probably..." Asenath starts.

"Not tell anyone yet?" I finish.

"Exactly. Just until we figure out what this is."

"Agreed. Complete discretion."

We pause at the office door, composing ourselves. Professional faces. Normal colleagues. Nothing to see here.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Ready."

We walk in, maintaining a respectable distance, our expressions carefully neutral. I make it approximately three steps before Priya appears in front of us.

"There you are. Kiyan's been asking for you, Asenath—apparently there's some issue with the launch timeline that he needs to discuss urgently." She barely glances at me before adding, "And Beryl, you have a client call in ten minutes."

"Right. Client call. On it."

We split up, heading to our respective responsibilities, but not before Asenath catches my eye and smiles. A small smile, private and secret, just for me.

I carry that smile with me for the rest of the afternoon.

---

The client call goes fine—or at least, I assume it does. To be honest, I'm operating on autopilot, saying the right words and making the right noises while my brain replays that kiss on an endless loop.

She kissed me.

Asenath Mensah kissed me.

In a sandwich shop, over mediocre turkey clubs, she leaned across the table and pressed her lips to mine and the world rearranged itself into something new.

I'm so distracted that I almost miss the email that arrives at 3:47 PM. It's from an internal address—a calendar invite for a meeting at 4:00, titled simply "Catch-up."

The organizer is Kiyan Sharma.

I stare at it for a long moment, trying to figure out why Kiyan would want to meet with me. We've barely interacted since he arrived—our roles don't overlap significantly, and I've been deliberately avoiding him for reasons that are probably obvious to everyone except him.

Maybe it's about the Nexus project. Maybe he needs information I have. Maybe it's completely innocent and I'm being paranoid.

Or maybe he wants to talk about Asenath.

I accept the invite, because refusing would be more suspicious than agreeing, and spend the next thirteen minutes alternating between dread and annoyance.

At 4:00 exactly, I make my way to the small conference room—the same one where I'd confessed my feelings to Asenath just yesterday, which feels like a cruel joke from the universe. Kiyan is already there, looking infuriatingly composed in his expensive suit, his expression unreadable.

"Beryl. Thanks for meeting with me."

"Did I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."

I sit, keeping my posture rigid and my expression neutral. Whatever this is, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

"I'll cut to the chase," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about Asenath."

Of course he did.

"What about her?"

"You're protective of her. That's obvious. And given what I did in high school, you have every reason to distrust me." He folds his hands on the table, his gaze steady. "But I want you to know that my intentions are good. I'm not here to hurt her again."

"With all due respect, Kiyan, I don't care about your intentions. I care about your actions. And your actions five years ago destroyed her."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you really understand what she went through? The rumors, the humiliation, the way people looked at her like she was a joke?" My voice is rising, despite my best efforts to stay calm. "She didn't date anyone for three years. She couldn't trust anyone. She flinched every time someone got too close."

"And you were there for her." It's not a question.

"Someone had to be."

He nods slowly, something shifting in his expression. "You love her."

It's not a question either, and I'm too tired of hiding to deny it.

"Yes. I love her. I've loved her for seven years, and I've watched her carry the weight of what you did for just as long." I lean forward, my eyes locked on his. "So whatever you're planning—whatever scheme you have to win her back—know that I will do everything in my power to protect her. From you or anyone else."

I expect him to argue. To defend himself, to get angry, to push back.

Instead, he smiles. A sad, rueful smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good," he says.

"Good?"

"Good that she has someone looking out for her. Good that she's not alone." He leans back in his chair. "I told Asenath I've changed, and I meant it. But I also know that words aren't enough—that I have to prove it through my actions. Part of that proof is accepting that she might not choose me. That she might choose someone else."

"Someone like me."

"Someone exactly like you." He pauses, considering his words. "I saw you two this morning. Arriving together. The way you looked at each other." He shakes his head. "I'd have to be blind not to see it."

I don't know what to say. I hadn't realized we'd been that obvious—although apparently, according to Marcus, the whole office already knew.

"I'm not going to lie and say I don't want her," Kiyan continues. "But I want her to be happy more than I want her to be with me. And if you're what makes her happy..." He spreads his hands. "Then I'll step back. Gracefully."

"You'd really do that?"

"I told you I've changed. This is me proving it."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling over us. I came into this meeting expecting a confrontation, maybe even a fight. Instead, I got... this. A rival backing down. A former enemy extending an olive branch.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For being honest."

"Thank you for loving her when I was too stupid to." He stands, buttoning his jacket. "She's lucky to have you, Beryl. I hope she realizes it."

"She's starting to."

"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses, turning back. "For what it's worth—I'm rooting for you. Both of you."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the strange, disorienting feeling that the world has just shifted in a way I didn't expect.

---

I find Asenath at her desk an hour later, staring at her computer screen with the glazed expression of someone who stopped actually working some time ago.

"Hey."

She looks up, and her face transforms—the weariness lifting, replaced by something warm and private. "Hey yourself. How was the client call?"

"Fine. Boring." I glance around, making sure no one's within earshot. "Kiyan asked to meet with me."

Her expression sharpens. "What did he want?"

"To talk about you, surprisingly. He basically gave me his blessing."

"His *blessing*?"

"Told me he could see there was something between us and that he'd step back if you chose me." I shake my head, still not entirely believing the conversation happened. "I think he might actually have changed. Or he's an even better liar than I thought."

Asenath is quiet for a moment, processing. "That's... unexpected."

"Tell me about it."

"How do you feel about it?"

I consider the question. "Confused, mostly. Part of me wants to stay suspicious—he hurt you, and I don't forget that easily. But another part of me thinks... maybe people really can change. Maybe everyone deserves a second chance."

"Even him?"

"I don't know. That's not my call to make." I look at her, really look at her. "That's yours."

She's silent for a long moment, her gaze distant. Then she stands, gathering her things.

"Walk me home?"

"It's 5:30. The day's not over yet."

"I know. But I've done approximately zero productive work since lunch, and I think Priya would forgive me if I ducked out early. Just this once."

I shouldn't. I have things to do—emails to send, reports to file, responsibilities that don't disappear just because my personal life is a mess. But she's looking at me with those eyes, the ones I've never been able to say no to, and the word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"Okay."

We leave the office together, side by side, walking into the late afternoon sun. Neither of us speaks for the first few blocks—we don't need to. The silence is comfortable, companionable, the silence of two people who know each other well enough to exist together without filling every moment with words.

"Beryl?" she says eventually.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you told me. How you feel, I mean. I know it took courage, and I know you were scared. But I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

"And the kiss..." She trails off, her cheeks flushing slightly. "That was really nice. Can we... do that again sometime?"

I laugh, surprised and delighted. "Sometime? Like, specifically?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." She's smiling now, that embarrassed, pleased smile that makes my heart flip. "I'm making this weird, aren't I?"

"You're making it perfect."

We stop at a corner, waiting for the light to change. And because I can—because she's given me permission, because the world feels different now—I reach out and take her hand.

She doesn't pull away.

"This is nice," she says softly.

"Yeah. It is."

The light changes. We walk on, hand in hand, into whatever comes next.

---

**End of Chapter 3**