Chapter 3 — Unspoken Shadows

Lily Harper

The café door swung shut behind Lily, the faint chime of its bell swallowed by the buzz of the streets outside. The city’s pulse seemed to linger in her chest, but inside, the air was warmer, a comforting blend of roasted coffee and freshly baked pastries. She wrapped her hands tightly around the strap of her leather satchel, inhaling deeply to steady herself. The scents were grounding, a brief but fragile shield against the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.

Her eyes scanned the room, catching sight of her editor at a small corner table. Greg Matthews was tapping his pen on a notepad, his energy as restless as ever. His salt-and-pepper hair stood at wild angles as though it had been subjected to countless frustrated gestures, and his tie hung loose around his neck. She hesitated for a moment, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, before finally weaving through the tables toward him. Greg noticed her approach and offered a distracted but genuine smile.

"Lily," he said, gesturing to the seat opposite him. "You’re early. I like it."

Sliding into the chair, she gave a faint smile, her satchel landing at her feet with a soft thud. Early, yes—but not because of diligence. She had spent twenty minutes pacing outside, rehearsing the conversation in her head, words spiraling into incoherent fragments. Now, face to face with Greg, the carefully constructed sentences dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

"How’s the article coming along?" Greg asked, leaning forward. His dark eyes sharpened with curiosity, his pen poised as though ready to capture her next words. "You’ve been teasing me for weeks, but I haven’t seen a draft yet."

Her fingers tightened around the paper cup she held. It was too hot, but the sting helped her focus, anchoring her to the moment. "It’s… coming. Slowly," she said, her voice quieter than intended.

Greg tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he studied her. "Not like you to be cagey. What’s the angle?"

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been. Lily’s gaze darted briefly to the table, the foam clinging to the inside of her coffee cup. Behind the counter, the low hum of the espresso machine mingled with the soft murmur of conversations at nearby tables. Across the room, a couple laughed, their joy a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up and meet Greg's gaze.

"It’s about mental health," she began carefully, measuring each word. "Specifically in college students. The pressures they face, the lack of resources, the stigma. It’s a broad topic, but I think it’s important."

He nodded slowly, his pen tapping the edge of his notebook. "Important, definitely. And timely. But broad can be tricky. You’ll need a hook, something concrete to ground it."

Her stomach twisted. She could feel the pulse in her throat, each beat a reminder of what she was about to say. "I… I do have a hook," she said, her voice faltering. "It’s personal."

Greg’s brows lifted, curiosity sharpening his expression. He leaned back slightly in his chair, waiting.

Lily hesitated, her hands trembling as she lifted the coffee to her lips. The liquid was lukewarm now, bitter despite the sugar she’d added. She set the cup down carefully, her movements deliberate as she tried to steady herself. "It’s about a friend of mine," she said finally. "Someone I knew in college. They… they struggled with mental health, and it…" Her throat tightened, the words refusing to come. The memory of her friend, their laugh, their quiet moments of vulnerability, surged to the surface. She couldn’t reduce them to a single sentence.

Greg softened, his usual edge giving way to something more compassionate. "Lily, you don’t have to push yourself to write this if it’s too close," he said gently. "I know how personal stories can weigh on you."

She shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. "It’s not too close," she lied, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "I just… I want to do it justice."

Greg studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Alright," he said. "Take your time, but don’t let it stall out. A story like this… it could make waves."

"I know," she said, managing a tight smile.

Greg glanced at his watch and sighed, tucking his pen into his pocket as he gathered his notebook. "I’ve got to run to another meeting, but keep me posted, okay? And let me know if you need help shaping it. I’m here for that."

"Will do," she replied, watching as he stood and disappeared into the bustle of the café.

For a long moment, she sat there alone, staring at the foam clinging to her cup. The words she hadn’t said echoed in her mind louder than the noise around her. Her satchel felt heavier now, the documents inside burning against her leg like a secret too big to contain. A fleeting image of Thomas crossed her mind—his composed expression, his piercing gaze, the way his jaw tightened when challenged. What would he say if he knew? What would he do?

The thought of facing him with this information hung over her like a storm cloud, but she couldn’t let it stop her. This wasn’t just about her friend anymore. It was about what they’d left behind—the truths they’d uncovered but never had the chance to expose.

---

The walk home was muted, the city’s usual chaos dulled by her racing thoughts. When she finally reached her apartment, she dropped her satchel onto her small wooden desk and turned on the lamp, its glow casting long shadows on the cracked walls. The documents spilled out with a rustle as she opened the bag, their contents spreading across the desk like a web of tangled truths.

Her notebook lay open beside them, its pages filled with scribbled connections and desperate questions. One name stood out among the rest: Carter Associates. Thomas’s firm.

She stared at it until the letters blurred, her mind racing. Could he have known? The thought was absurd. Thomas was meticulous, yes, but not malicious. He prided himself on his integrity, on his attention to detail. And yet… how could he not have seen this? How could he not have questioned it?

Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. She glanced at the screen: a message from Emma.

*Let’s meet soon. I miss everyone.*

The words hit her like a pang, sharp and sudden. She closed her eyes, the memory of that summer day on the beach flashing through her mind—Emma’s sunhat, Jake’s hoodie, Matt’s camera flashing, Thomas folding the picnic blanket with precision. And their friend. Their friend, alive, laughing, unknowable now except through fragments of memory.

She typed a quick reply—*Me too. Let’s plan something.*—before setting the phone aside. Her gaze returned to the documents, her resolve hardening. Whatever she found, whatever it cost, she owed it to her friend to see this through. Even if it meant shattering the fragile pieces of her world to uncover the truth.

---

Across town, Matt sat slumped on the couch in his dimly lit apartment. The faint hum of traffic filtered through the cracked window, mingling with the rhythmic dripping of a leaky kitchen faucet. The coffee table in front of him was a graveyard of empty bottles and crumpled photographs, each one a failed attempt to recapture something he’d lost.

His camera lay abandoned beside him, its lens cap still on. The weight of it, symbolic and physical, pressed against his side. He picked up a photo from the floor—its edges curling under the damp from a spilled drink. The image was blurry but unmistakable: their beach. Emma’s sunhat, Jake’s hoodie, Lily’s quiet form at the shoreline. Thomas in the background, folding the blanket.

And their friend. Their friend, laughing, alive.

Matt’s grip tightened, the photo crumpling under his fingers. A low curse escaped his lips as he threw it aside, the image landing face down on the rug. His chest ached, every breath heavy, the walls of his apartment seeming to close in on him.

For a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—he thought about calling Lily. She’d know what to say. She always did. But then he remembered the distance in her eyes lately, the way her shoulders seemed heavier, her words more clipped.

No. He couldn’t burden her with this. Not now.

Instead, he reached for the bottle again, the darkness swallowing him whole.