Page 40 of The Authenticity Clause
Earlier that day, while reviewing a physical copy of the Northwind project file, something had fallen out. It was a small, neon-pink sticky note, stuck to the back of a page. He had almost thrown it away without looking. But he had paused. On the note, in Leo’s familiar, messy scrawl, was a single, ridiculous doodle: a coffee cup with tiny, feathered wings and a determined expression, soaring over the words,Caffeine Powers: Activate!
It was stupid. It was unprofessional. It was pure, unadulterated Leo.
Julian had stared at it for a full minute. His first instinct had been to crumple it, to destroy this final, insignificant piece of contraband data. It was a remnant of the chaos, a bug in the clean system.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he had folded it carefully and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. And now, as he stood on his silent balcony, he reached into the drawer of the small tool cabinet where he kept his bonsai supplies and placed the folded pinknote inside, hiding it beneath a soft cloth. It was an illogical, sentimental, and completely indefensible action. A tiny piece of chaos he couldn't bring himself to purge.
He looked at his collection of perfect, lonely trees. He had spent a decade cultivating them, shaping them, controlling their every move. He had created a world of profound, quiet beauty.
And for the first time, standing in the center of his restored, orderly life, surrounded by the tangible evidence of his success and his control, Julian Thorne was forced to confront the single, devastating truth he had been avoiding for three long weeks.
He was miserable.
Chapter 28: The Static
Time, for the past three weeks, had become a thick, viscous substance. It didn’t pass so much as it congealed. Leo’s apartment, once his vibrant sanctuary, the chaotic, colorful nest of his personality, had become a cage. A museum of ghosts.
He’d wake up when the light outside became too bright to ignore, and he’d move from his bed to his lumpy, comfortable couch. And there he would stay, adrift in the silent, stagnant air, until the light faded again and it was acceptable to return to bed. The days bled into one another, a monotonous gray smear of existence.
His phone was a dead weight on the coffee table, a constant, silent accusation. The screen would light up with calls he never answered. His mom, mostly. Her name would flash—Mom Calling—and a wave of shame so profound it was nauseating would wash over him. How could he tell her? How could he admit that her son, the one she worried about, the one she was so proud of for finally landing a “real job,” had been fired for being a fraud? So he let it ring, and with each missed call, the chasm between him and the outside world grew a little wider.
The apartment reflected his internal state. A graveyard of takeout containers littered the kitchen counter. A fine layer of dust coated every surface, dulling the bright colors of his booksand prints. The plant Julian had once commented on was now a sad, brown skeleton in its pot. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
Every object was a memory, a landmine of grief. The worn spot on the rug where they had lain together, tangled and happy. The coffee table where Julian had patiently explained the economics of a business proposal. The doorway where they had almost kissed, where they had said their last, real goodbye. The ghosts were everywhere, and they were relentless.
He was at rock bottom. The core wound he’d spent his entire life trying to outrun—his deep-seated, unshakable fear of being a failure—was no longer a fear. It was a fact. He had reached the pinnacle of his professional life, had been offered everything he ever thought he wanted, and it had all been a lie. He wasn’t just a failure; he was a disgrace. The self-deprecating humor that had been his armor was gone. There was nothing funny about this. This was just the bleak, silent truth.
He was staring at a particularly interesting patch of ceiling when a loud, insistent knocking echoed from his front door. He didn’t move. It was probably the landlord, another battle he didn’t have the energy to fight. The knocking continued, harder this time.
“Leo Hayes, I know you’re in there! I can smell the despair and old pizza from the hallway! Open this door or I swear I will pick the lock. Don’t test me, I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials!”
Maya.
A tiny, fragile flicker of something that wasn’t numbness sparked in his chest. He ignored it. The knocking stopped. He heard a faint scratching sound at the lock, followed by a string of creative curses. A moment later, his phone buzzed on the table.
Maya [1:14 PM]FINE. But I’m not leaving. I will sit here and order increasingly fragrant and delicious food to be delivered to your doorstep until the smell drives you insane. Your move, Hayes.
He stared at the message. A ghost of his old self, the one who loved a witty challenge, surfaced for a brief second. He sighed, a long, rattling sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his lungs. He pushed himself off the couch, his joints protesting. The world tilted for a second as he stood. He was a ghost in his own apartment.
He shuffled to the door and unlocked it. Maya stood on the other side, her arms laden with two heavy grocery bags. She wasn’t smiling. Her expression was a carefully balanced mixture of profound concern and absolute, no-bullshit determination.
She walked past him without a word, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage of his apartment, her lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line. She went straight to the kitchen, set the bags down with a thud, and started unpacking. Milk. Bread. A carton of eggs. An absurdly large bag of oranges.
“You look like shit,” she said, her back to him. It was the kindest thing anyone had said to him in weeks.
“I’m cultivating a look,” he replied, his voice a hoarse croak. “It’s called ‘post-apocalyptic chic’.” The old banter felt foreign on his tongue, a language he barely remembered how to speak.
“It’s not chic, Leo. It’s a biohazard,” she said, turning to face him. She leaned back against the counter, her arms crossed. Her eyes were soft, but her voice was firm. “How long has it been since you’ve been outside?”
He shrugged. “Tuesday? Maybe the Tuesday before that? The sun and I are on a break.”
“And your mom? She’s called me three times. She’s worried sick.”
Guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in his gut. “I know. I just… I can’t talk to her. Not yet.”
“Okay,” Maya said, nodding slowly. She wasn’t pushing. She was just stating facts. She walked over to him, stopping a few feet away. “I’m not here to give you a lecture. I’m not here to tell you to get over it. I’m just here to make sure you’re still alive.” She gestured around the room. “This… is not a sustainable life support system.”
