Chapter : 4 Aria

By the time I finished my rounds, the hospital had quieted. The sterile hum of machines faded behind me as I stepped into the evening air. I hadn’t eaten all day. Not that I noticed. Or maybe I did—and chose not to. Control isn’t just about actions. It’s about needs. Suppressing them. Redirecting them. Still… hunger eventually demands attention.

The small restaurant a block from my apartment had become routine. Predictable. Safe. I ordered pasta—and, against my better judgment, the milkshake everyone seemed obsessed with. A mistake. I stared at the glass in mild disgust.

How do people drink this?

“You know you don’t actually have to drink it.” The voice cut through my thoughts. I looked up. And paused.

She was composed—but not obviously so. Hers was quieter. Intentional. The kind of presence that didn’t demand attention… …but held it anyway.

“I was trying to be polite,” I said dryly. “But since you mentioned it—this is terrible.”

She laughed. Real. Unfiltered.

“I’ve been telling my parents that for years. They refuse to take it off the menu.” Ah. So this was her place. Noted.

“I owe you an apology,” I said. “The food is great. The drink just… declares war on taste.” She laughed again and slid into the seat across from me.

“I’m Mira.”

“Aria. New in town. Still making questionable decisions, apparently.”

“Like ordering that?” she nodded toward the milkshake.

“Exactly.” A pause. She studied me. I noticed. Of course I did.

“You’re alone on a Saturday night,” she said. “That explains it.”

I raised a brow. “You’re here too.”

“Difference is,” she leaned back slightly, “I own the place.” Fair.

“I don’t know anyone here,” I admitted.

“That can be peaceful,” she said softly. “Or lonely.”

“Depends on the person.”

“And which one are you?” I held her gaze.

“Still deciding.” The conversation shifted somewhere between my untouched milkshake and her stealing it to prove a point.

“You’re a doctor?” she asked.

“Recently started.”

“That explains it.”

“What does?”

“You notice everything.” I didn’t answer. Because she was right. Instead—deflection.

“And you?”

“Professional disappointment,” she said lightly. “Socialite, apparently.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” she admitted. “…pretending not to notice things you definitely notice.” There it was. A crack. Real.

“You’re better at it than you think,” I said. Her eyes flickered. Caught. Then she smiled—smaller this time.

“You too.” Time passed. Unnoticed. Or ignored.

“You don’t feel like a stranger,” she said softly. Something tightened in my chest. Dangerous. Connections always are. But instead of pulling back— I leaned in.

“Neither do you.” Silence settled. Not empty. Full.

“Friends?” she asked, extending her hand. Simple. I looked at it for a moment. Then took it.

“Friends.”

Warm. Real. Temporary.

“Well,” she said, standing, “now that we’re friends… drink?” I tilted my head, studying her. Casual tone. Intentional invitation. Interesting.

“Do you even have to ask?” I said. “I’m in.” Her smile softened—less practiced now.

“Good. I was going anyway. You just saved me from boredom.”

“Glad to be useful.” The bar was wrong the moment we stepped in.

Too loud.

Too crowded.

Too unpredictable.

No control.