The messages stopped for three days.
That was worse than when they were coming.
Silence creates space for imagination. For paranoia. For questions that multiply in the dark.
I kept checking my phone anyway.
Nothing.
No unknown numbers.
No warnings.
No cryptic lines about guilt.
Just normal life.
And nothing about this felt normal anymore.
Studio had become a battlefield of restraint.
Adrian was sharper now. Controlled in a way that felt intentional. He spoke less to me. Looked less. Corrected my work with professional precision.
If someone walked in, they would never suspect anything had happened.
But I knew better.
Because when our hands brushed accidentally during material distribution
He recoiled.
Not from disgust.
From recognition.
From memory.
From want.
And that reaction lingered far longer than touch.
Daniel surprised me on Friday.
He didn't show up angry.
He didn't demand answers.
He brought coffee.
"I thought you'd need it," he said simply.
