That Friday, the office threw a casual dinner for the visiting partners at a small lodge outside town. The group sat around a fire pit, the flames licking sparks into the cool night. Beer bottles clinked, conversations overlapped, and laughter carried into the trees.
Katrina found herself seated beside Lemayan. He was telling a story about a lion hunt—not a literal one, but a tale passed down in his family. His voice was steady, rhythmic, drawing everyone in. When the story ended, the group erupted into applause, but his gaze slid toward Katrina. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the fire’s glow and the intensity of his eyes.
Eddie, across the circle, caught the look. It was fleeting, but it struck him with the sharpness of glass. He told himself it was nothing—just the way people look at storytellers. Still, unease crawled under his skin.
That night, as he drove Katrina home, she was quiet again, her face turned toward the darkened window. He wanted to ask, wanted to demand, but instead he said softly, “We’re okay, right?”
Her head turned, her lips curving into that familiar smile—the one he had loved since kindergarten. “Of course, Eddie. We’re perfect.” But perfection, he realized later, can be the most fragile illusion of all.
The following week blurred into a storm of wedding tasks. Katrina’s phone buzzed constantly—texts from her mother about fittings, calls from the florist, reminders from the church secretary. Eddie kept steady through it all, his calm presence anchoring the chaos. Yet Katrina felt the weight of each message pressing harder, not lighter. The wedding no longer seemed like a celebration waiting to bloom, but a machine grinding forward, each cog spinning faster, with no way to stop it.
It was late on Thursday evening when the unraveling began. The office had emptied hours ago, but Katrina remained, her laptop glowing in the dim light. She was reworking slides for a client when a knock came on the open door. Lemayan leaned against the frame, jacket slung over one arm.
“You work too much,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze steady. “So do you,” she countered, though her voice lacked conviction. He smiled, stepping inside. “True. But sometimes work is only the excuse for what we are afraid to admit.” She blinked, unsettled. “And what is that?” “That we long for more,” he said simply.
The silence stretched. She should have laughed it off, should have packed her bag and walked away. Instead, she asked softly, “More of what?” “More than boxes and lists. More than predictable lives that others planned for us.” His words were gentle, but they struck like stones skipping across still water, disturbing everything beneath.
Katrina’s breath caught. “I’m getting married in three weeks,” she whispered, as if to remind herself. “And do you want it,” he asked, tilting his head, “because it is yours… or because it is expected?” The question lodged in her chest like a shard of glass. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Lemayan didn’t press. Instead, he pulled a small string of beads from his pocket—blue, red, white threaded together in a simple pattern—and placed them on her desk. “In my home, we give this when we want someone to remember us,” he said. “Not out of obligation. Out of choice.”
Her fingers brushed the beads before she could stop herself. They were warm, as if carrying the memory of his hand. “Come tomorrow,” he said, his voice low. “There is a gathering, nothing formal. Music, stories, food. You will see a piece of my world.” She hesitated, heart racing. “I… I shouldn’t.”
“Then don’t,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes told a different story. “But if you are curious, if you want to breathe air that feels new—come.” With that, he left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Katrina sat frozen, the beads clutched in her palm. She thought of Eddie—of his steady eyes, his father sanding the wedding arbor, the choir rehearsing hymns. She thought of the bend by the river, their private sanctuary. But she also thought of firelight, of drums in the night, of horizons she had never seen.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Eddie: Don’t stay too late. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Tears pricked her eyes, though she didn’t know why. She closed the laptop, slipped the beads into her pocket, and whispered into the empty room, “Just once.”
Katrina found herself seated beside Lemayan. He was telling a story about a lion hunt—not a literal one, but a tale passed down in his family. His voice was steady, rhythmic, drawing everyone in. When the story ended, the group erupted into applause, but his gaze slid toward Katrina. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the fire’s glow and the intensity of his eyes.
Eddie, across the circle, caught the look. It was fleeting, but it struck him with the sharpness of glass. He told himself it was nothing—just the way people look at storytellers. Still, unease crawled under his skin.
That night, as he drove Katrina home, she was quiet again, her face turned toward the darkened window. He wanted to ask, wanted to demand, but instead he said softly, “We’re okay, right?”
Her head turned, her lips curving into that familiar smile—the one he had loved since kindergarten. “Of course, Eddie. We’re perfect.” But perfection, he realized later, can be the most fragile illusion of all.
The following week blurred into a storm of wedding tasks. Katrina’s phone buzzed constantly—texts from her mother about fittings, calls from the florist, reminders from the church secretary. Eddie kept steady through it all, his calm presence anchoring the chaos. Yet Katrina felt the weight of each message pressing harder, not lighter. The wedding no longer seemed like a celebration waiting to bloom, but a machine grinding forward, each cog spinning faster, with no way to stop it.
It was late on Thursday evening when the unraveling began. The office had emptied hours ago, but Katrina remained, her laptop glowing in the dim light. She was reworking slides for a client when a knock came on the open door. Lemayan leaned against the frame, jacket slung over one arm.
“You work too much,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze steady. “So do you,” she countered, though her voice lacked conviction. He smiled, stepping inside. “True. But sometimes work is only the excuse for what we are afraid to admit.” She blinked, unsettled. “And what is that?” “That we long for more,” he said simply.
The silence stretched. She should have laughed it off, should have packed her bag and walked away. Instead, she asked softly, “More of what?” “More than boxes and lists. More than predictable lives that others planned for us.” His words were gentle, but they struck like stones skipping across still water, disturbing everything beneath.
Katrina’s breath caught. “I’m getting married in three weeks,” she whispered, as if to remind herself. “And do you want it,” he asked, tilting his head, “because it is yours… or because it is expected?” The question lodged in her chest like a shard of glass. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Lemayan didn’t press. Instead, he pulled a small string of beads from his pocket—blue, red, white threaded together in a simple pattern—and placed them on her desk. “In my home, we give this when we want someone to remember us,” he said. “Not out of obligation. Out of choice.”
Her fingers brushed the beads before she could stop herself. They were warm, as if carrying the memory of his hand. “Come tomorrow,” he said, his voice low. “There is a gathering, nothing formal. Music, stories, food. You will see a piece of my world.” She hesitated, heart racing. “I… I shouldn’t.”
“Then don’t,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes told a different story. “But if you are curious, if you want to breathe air that feels new—come.” With that, he left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Katrina sat frozen, the beads clutched in her palm. She thought of Eddie—of his steady eyes, his father sanding the wedding arbor, the choir rehearsing hymns. She thought of the bend by the river, their private sanctuary. But she also thought of firelight, of drums in the night, of horizons she had never seen.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Eddie: Don’t stay too late. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Tears pricked her eyes, though she didn’t know why. She closed the laptop, slipped the beads into her pocket, and whispered into the empty room, “Just once.”
