The city hadn't changed, but Damien had.
When he pulled up to Kendrick's office building, the hum of traffic and the glow of streetlights reminded him of the rhythm he'd left behind — late nights, low laughs, small crises solved with stubborn determination. He stepped out of the car, taking a deep breath, the cool night air sharp against his skin.
Inside, the tension was palpable before he even reached the door.
Kendrick stood by the window, phone in hand, jaw tight. Jeff leaned back on a chair, arms crossed, while Astrid lounged on the couch, scrolling aimlessly. Alicia paced, the familiar furrow in her brow betraying her concern.
Damien stepped into the room. "You called," he said.
Jeff smirked. "Finally decided the drama was worth seeing in person."
"Don't tempt me," Damien replied, his tone even, though his eyes already searched the room for answers. "Where's Elsie?"
Alicia stopped pacing. "She… she's gone silent."
"Silent?" Damien echoed, raising an eyebrow.
Kendrick lowered the phone. "She hasn't answered any calls or texts for two days. Joan says it's intentional — that Elsie needed space."
Damien's gaze flicked to Kendrick. "And you're worried?"
Kendrick let out a quiet sigh. "I don't like it. Silence isn't her style. Not like this."
Astrid leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She's not missing, right? Just… quiet?"
Kendrick shook his head. "Exactly. And the silence is loud enough that it makes the rest of us uneasy."
Jeff chuckled. "We're worried. That's the polite term. Panicking is the honest one."
Damien studied him, then Kendrick. "And you think she'll come back?"
Kendrick's gaze remained on the window, the city lights reflected in his eyes. "She always does."
Alicia finally sat down, folding her legs under her. "But these two days? It's new. The quiet. We're not used to it."
Damien leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Maybe she just needed to step away from everything. From expectations, from noise."
"She usually calls when she's gone," Jeff said. "Or leaves breadcrumbs. This time, nothing."
Astrid rolled her eyes. "Of course. Because drama has a sense of timing."
Kendrick shot her a half-smile. "It's not drama. She's been stretched thin, that's all. She needed time to breathe, and she took it."
Damien exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Then we wait. People like Elsie always come back."
The room fell into a quiet rhythm, the hum of the city drifting through the windows. They didn't speak about her again — at least, not directly. Conversation drifted to work, mutual teasing, shared memories. The tension lingered, subtle but present, like a taut string vibrating in the background.
Later, when the group began to leave, Alicia lingered near the doorway, glancing at Damien.
"She'll return," she said softly.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the skyline. "She always does. People like her… they leave just enough space to make you notice when they're gone."
Alicia smiled faintly. "You sound like Joan now."
Damien smirked. "Maybe she's contagious."
When everyone had gone, he stayed behind a moment longer, standing by the window Kendrick had been staring out of earlier. The skyline shimmered below, restless and unending.
He thought of Joan — of her quiet defiance, her steady eyes. Of the coffee they'd shared, the words they hadn't said.
And he thought of Kendrick and Elsie — two people who hadn't realized how much of themselves they'd given away until silence was the only thing left between them.
By the time he stepped into the elevator, the city lights blurred past the glass and silence of her absence didn't feel empty — it felt expectant, a quiet tension that demanded patience. When he finally stepped out into the cool night, Damien felt something unexplainable — not peace, not certainty, but clarity.
This was what they did.
They got lost.
They found each other again.
They started over.
He climbed into his car, started the engine, and let the city lights blur past the windshield.
Tonight, they waited. Tomorrow, she might call. Or not. Either way, Damien knew they'd all be ready, he'd be there — just like always.