As Chris stepped into his office, Mr Johnson followed close behind. Chris halted abruptly, turning to face the man, whose gaze dropped instantly to the floor.
"Leave," Chris ordered, his voice cold as steel.
Without a word, Mr Johnson obeyed, closing the door gently behind him.
Chris let out a shuddering breath as he sank onto the sofa near the door. Impatiently, he loosened his tie, yanking at the fabric as if it were suffocating him.
This isn't happening. His pulse thundered in his ears. His shirt clung to his damp skin, and his fingers trembled against his thighs.
What's wrong with you, Chris? Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he winced as a dull ache coiled through his skull. He shut his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath.
Then it hit him.
The scent of almonds.
Alex.
Isa. The girl Alex always reminded him of.
Why is she here? What is she doing here?
A face surfaced in his mind—the radiant smile, the twinkling eyes, the sonorous voice. Slender fingers lightly tapping the strings of a guitar. The memory clawed its way back, vivid and relentless.
She had sat on a weathered bench in the middle of the woods, wrapped in her school uniform, her golden hair cascading down her back like a river, flowing as if it longed to hide her from the world.
She sang.
Her voice was as sweet as a songbird's melody, rising and falling, gentle yet commanding. The trees swayed, the birds hushed—it was as if the entire forest had paused, enraptured.
And there he had been, hidden behind a tree, his own uniform wrinkled from the weight of his backpack. A foolish grin had tugged at his lips as he peeked at her, a silent observer, a quiet admirer.
But then he shifted. A twig snapped beneath his foot.
She froze. Like a startled prey, she sprang to her feet, her wide eyes darting around, her throat bobbing with the force of her rapid breaths.
Chris had furrowed his brows.
She's afraid.
As he hesitated, debating whether to run, she spotted him.
Their gazes locked.
She blinked, taking an instinctive step back.
Chris parted his lips, then hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I… I didn't mean to disturb you," he had murmured, his voice stiff. He pressed his lips together before forcing himself to speak again. "You… you have a beautiful voice."
She had blinked again, as if he had spoken in a language she didn't understand. And before he could say anything else—she bolted.
That day, he had stood there, speechless.
That day could have been their first real meeting. Her fear of singing in public had drawn him to her. And he had wanted—needed—to tell her that he meant what he said. That her voice wasn't just beautiful—it was extraordinary.
They had become close friends. She had believed in him. She had confided in him.
"I don't want to," she had whispered to him one night, beneath the dark sky, the woods surrounding them like silent witnesses.
"Why?" he had asked after she confessed that she wouldn't be joining the school's singing competition the next day.
"I can't do it." She shook her head, fingers twisting anxiously in her lap. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground. "I'm nervous. I… I just can't."
"Then," he had said, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers, "you don't believe in yourself."
Their eyes locked. Hers shimmered, reflecting the moonlight, glistening with unshed tears.
"Do you believe in me, Isa?" His voice had softened as he clasped her hands in his.
She nodded.
"Then trust me when I say your voice isn't ugly. It's beautiful. And it's not just the trees and birds that should hear it—people should, too." He had cupped her face, his thumbs tracing the dampness on her cheeks. "I'll be there, watching you."
And then—he had kissed her.
She had responded, her lips meeting his in a tender exchange, slow and searching. Only the trees and the endless night sky had borne witness to the moment.
But now—
Chris tore off his suit jacket and threw it onto the sofa.
She shouldn't be here.
But something clawed at his chest.
Pain.
Guilt.
That night—that night had been the last time they saw each other.
She was supposed to be at school the next day, standing on that stage, proving herself. But she never came. He later heard she had lost her father and had taken a break from school. Days blurred into weeks. Weeks stretched into months. Months turned into years.
She never came back.
Chris fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a bottle of pills. He dry-swallowed one, his throat constricting around the bitterness.
Leaning back into the sofa, he exhaled heavily and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, allowing himself a moment to breathe.
She can't stay.
His decision settled like a stone in his gut. His fingers dug into the sofa's fabric.
"She can't stay," he muttered again, his words directed more at the heaviness in his chest than the empty room, imprinting them in his mind, making them settle deep within.
He shut his eyes, his breath ragged, his muscles coiling as if his body rebelled against his own resolve.