Adrian had resumed work that day.
I knew before I even saw him.
I knew because when I walked into the office, both lights were on—his office and the office of the one I dreaded.
Twin rectangles of warm glow spilling onto the floor, pooling in the quiet morning air like two suns rising too close to each other.
I froze at the entrance, my breath catching.
Not because I saw either of them.
But because the door of his office—the wrong him—was slightly ajar, and something inside me recoiled with such force it felt physical. A push from my own instincts telling me:
Don't go near that door. Don't even look at it.
So I didn't.
I just walked to my desk.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because I was calm.
But because the air around that second office radiated heat—quiet, invisible, suffocating—like walking too close would burn me.
I sat down as quietly as I could, as though noise itself might summon him.
Somehow, throughout the day, both offices stayed closed.
Not a sound.
Not a shadow.
Not even a hint of motion.
And a small part of me—ugly, trembling, exhausted—let myself believe that maybe I would get through the day without shattering.
Maybe I could pretend nothing was wrong for a little longer.
But the universe rarely cooperates when fear is involved.
The last meeting of the day was the one I dreaded the least—ironically.
The project proposal meeting.
Routine. Predictable.
Something I could survive with muscle memory alone.
I figured neither of them would come.
They hadn't attended any meetings all day.
Doors closed, blinds drawn.
Silent.
So I walked into the conference room with my laptop balanced against my hip, my pen tucked behind my ear, my heart steady enough that I could pretend it wasn't bruised.
I sat.
Opened my notes.
Focused on breathing.
People filed in.
Voices buzzed.
Chairs shifted.
Everything normal.
Everything survivable.
Until the noise stopped.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
It stopped, like someone had pressed a mute button on the entire room.
My fingers tightened around my pen.
My stomach dropped in a clean, violent plunge.
Why is it so quiet?
I didn't want to look up.
My body knew before my mind did.
A sixth sense humming under my skin.
But silence demands attention.
So I forced myself—slowly, reluctantly—to lift my gaze.
And I saw why the room had stopped breathing.
They had come.
Both of them.
Side by side.
Moving in perfect sync, like a mirrored image come to life—except it wasn't a mirror because the reflection wasn't predictable, wasn't obedient to physics, wasn't lurking only when asked.
It walked into the room with its own pulse.
And looked right back at us.
If I'd been standing, my knees would've buckled.
Adrian walked in through the door on the right, shoulders straighter than usual, jaw tight, eyes dimmed by exhaustion.
He looked like someone carrying the weight of a truth he wished he could set down for even a second.
His gaze swept the room but avoided mine—deliberately, gently, protectively.
Like he knew I was barely holding myself together.
And then there was—
No.
I didn't say his name in my mind.
I refused to give him that power, even internally.
The other one—the one who shared Adrian's face yet had none of his softness—stood opposite him with effortless calm.
Where Adrian's posture carried strain, his carried certainty.
Where Adrian hesitated, he calculated.
Their similarities were skin-deep.
Everything underneath was wrong.
His eyes flicked over the room like he was searching for something—or someone.
And when they found me…
A shiver crawled down my spine.
Not because he smiled.
He didn't.
But because something in his gaze tightened, like recognition, like interest, like a quiet acknowledgment of my fear—and a promise to remember it.
I looked down immediately.
My pen nearly slipping from my fingers.
The meeting leader cleared his throat with a shaky sound.
"E-everyone, I would like to introduce someone. This is Mr. Elias Blake."
A ripple ran through the room—shock, confusion, disbelief.
Whispers rose sharply, uncontrolled but careful:
"Oh my God they look exactly—"
"There's two of them?"
"Is that his twin? Did you guys know?"
"No way, this is crazy—"
"Wait, the rumor— So it was true?"
I kept my face neutral and unmoving.
I didn't look up.
I didn't meet anyone's eyes.
I didn't let myself breathe too deeply, afraid he'd notice the shake of it.
Adrian stepped forward, tired eyes sweeping the room
"My brother, and your new design director."
The words were smooth, practiced, rehearsed.
And that—more than anything—made my stomach twist.
More whispers.
Some excited.
Some frightened.
Some fascinated.
But none of them knew what I knew.
None of them felt what I felt stepping into that office a few weeks ago.
None of them understood how a single man could hold silence the way Elias did—like a blade.
For the rest of the meeting, I didn't hear a single word.
I watched the table grain.
The faint scratch on my laptop hinge.
The corner of the projector screen that curled slightly inward.
Anything but them.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped loudly as everyone rushed to talk to Adrian or greet Elias. Except none of them actually answered:
"Welcome!"
"Did you just arrive?"
"How come we've never seen you before?"
"Are you younger or older?"
"Do you also—"
I didn't stay long enough to hear the rest.
I packed my laptop slowly, calmly, methodically.
Then I slipped out of the room before anyone could stop me.
My throat was tight.
My palms damp.
My heart unsteady.
I walked past both offices without hesitation—not because I was brave…
…but because I couldn't afford to hesitate.
If I slowed down, even for a second, even to blink—
I might feel his eyes on me again.
And I couldn't handle that.
Not yet.
Not today.
By the time I reached my desk, my hands were trembling.
Not violently.
Not visibly to anyone else.
But enough that I curled them into fists under the table.
Enough to remind me that some fears don't shout.
Some fears whisper.
Some fears wear familiar faces.
Some fears walk into conference rooms with introductions and polite nods.
Some fears look like the person you care for.
And some fears look like someone who shouldn't exist beside him.
I told myself a thousand things:
You're overreacting.
You're imagining this.
He's just another employee.
He's just Adrian's brother.
He's harmless.
He's nothing.
But all lies have a taste.
And these tasted like metal.
When the office finally quieted, when the day began thinning into evening, when the lights hummed in that dull way that meant people were leaving, I stood from my chair.
My legs weren't steady.
But they moved.
I packed my bag carefully, checking twice that everything was inside even though I already knew it was.
The elevator ride down felt too slow, like each floor dragged itself past me in excruciating inches.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp.
I breathed it in until my lungs hurt.
And then I breathed again.
Because despite everything—
Despite the dread that clung to my ribs
Despite the wrongness of seeing them together
Despite the heat from that other office
Despite the silence that seemed to follow his footsteps
Despite the name he'd used
Despite the fear
—I wasn't leaving.
My dreams weren't temporary.
My future wasn't fragile.
And the life I'd fought for didn't belong to the shadow of a man who thought fear was a doorway.
I didn't run.
Not again.
I crossed my arms, bracing myself against the chill.
"I'll survive," I whispered to no one.
To myself.
"This is my life. My work. My dream. And I'm not giving it up."
Even if staying meant learning how to breathe with two identical storms on opposite sides of the same hallway.
Even if staying meant stepping into the unknown every day.
Even if staying meant walking straight toward a danger I couldn't name yet.
I wasn't leaving Adrian.
And I wasn't leaving myself.