[ Iᑎ丅ᗴᖇ-ᐯIᗴᗯ ]
The restaurant buzzed with life—a symphony of cutlery clinking against plates, low conversations blending into a steady hum, and the occasional burst of laughter slicing through the air like fireworks. Warm lighting bathed the space in a relaxed glow, casting gentle shadows and creating an inviting atmosphere where people lingered over their meals, savoring the fleeting moments as the outside world faded away.
(Y/n), unfortunately, was doing the exact opposite.
Seated at a small table near the side, they stared at the clock with an intensity that suggested it had personally wronged them. Every tick echoed in their mind like a drumbeat, sounding louder than the last, each second stretching out longer than it had any right to, as if mocking their anxious state.
They weren't late, and that was the strange part.
Anticipation had filled their veins as they prepared for the dramatic, out-of-breath entrance they'd envisioned, but instead, they had arrived early—early enough to sit alone in their thoughts, early enough to let their imagination spiral into a restless storm of anxiety and excitement.
"...Okay, okay, this is fine," they muttered under their breath, pulling out their phone for what felt like the fifth time. The screen glowed under their fingers, and they squinted as they double-checked everything—time, date, location—each detail almost taunting in its accuracy.
"Nope. Still right. Still here. Still... waiting."
Their foot tapped against the polished wooden floor at a frantic pace, a relentless rhythm keeping time with their racing heart. One hand drummed against the table, fingers moving in uneven patterns, while the other ran through their hair—pushing it back only to let it fall wildly again seconds later.
They shifted in their seat, adjusting and readjusting, trying to find a comfortable position but failing spectacularly.
Then again.
Then again.
Still nothing.
A waiter approached, his footsteps hesitant as he took in the sight of (Y/n) practically vibrating in their chair.
"Uh... are you alright?" he asked cautiously, his voice laced with concern. "Ready to order?"
In an instant, (Y/n) straightened, energy surging through them like a wave crashing on the shore.
Their posture snapped into place, a confident grin stretching across their face as if they hadn't just been unraveling seconds ago. "Me? Oh, yeah, I'm good!" they said, their voice bright and cheerful, carrying that breezy, almost playful energy that was now a mask over the anxiety beneath. "Just waiting on someone. You know how it is—gotta let the suspense build, right?"
The waiter blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"...Right."
He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at their still-tapping foot, the nervous energy almost palpable.
"If you'd like, I could—uh—get someone? Or maybe you want to step outside for a bit?" he suggested, lowering his voice slightly. "You seem a little... tense."
"Tense? Nah, nah, I'm cool," (Y/n) waved it off with an airy flick of their wrist, maintaining the smile, though their fingers hadn't stopped their frantic dance. "Just waiting on an acquaintance. They'll be here any second. I've got this whole patience thing down. Totally mastered it. A real pro."
Their foot tapped faster, a counterpoint to the waiter's doubtful expression.
"...Uh-huh."
He slowly pointed to his left, the gesture almost imperceptible. "You mean that acquaintance?"
(Y/n) blinked, confusion knitting their brows together.
They turned.
And there she was.
Sitting just a few tables behind them, her posture straight, expression completely neutral—borderline deadpan. She had clearly been there for a while, her unreadable gaze fixed on them, unfazed by the flurry of activity that had just transpired.
Waiting.
For them.
(Y/n) froze, realization crashing down like a cold wave.
"Oh—!"
.
.
.
*SCREE- CRASH!*
.
.
.
They nearly launched themselves out of their seat, the chair screeching loudly against the polished floor as it scraped on its legs. In their haste, they tripped over one of the chair's legs, stumbling forward and hitting the ground with a soft thud that silenced nearby tables.
A few heads turned, eyes widening at the spectacle.
"...I meant to do that," they muttered quickly, embarrassment flooding their cheeks as they scrambled back up, heart pounding.
Grabbing their belongings in a flurry—bag, phone, papers—they rushed over, nearly dragging everything along with them before dropping it all beside the chair across from her. They slid into their seat, breath slightly uneven, posture stiff for a split second, before forcing their pulse and body to relax.
"Hi! Sorry! I—uh—didn't see you there," they chuckled, offering a sheepish yet energetic smile, trying to shake off the tumble.
The interviewer didn't react.
Not a flinch.
Just a steady, unblinking stare that felt like a spotlight cutting through the haze of tension.
(Y/n) straightened instinctively, suddenly hyperaware of how chaotic that entrance had been, their heart racing in the silence.
"...Right," they added, clearing their throat, desperately trying to compose themselves. Their hands folded neatly on the table—far too neatly for someone who had just tripped over a chair.
The interviewer remained completely unexpressive, her gaze flicking briefly to the pile of overprepared materials (Y/n) had brought before returning to their face, her eyes calculating.
Silent.
Measured.
Waiting.
The table fell into a quiet lull, the air thick with unspoken tension.
(Y/n) sat upright, their posture perfectly poised—hands gently folded in front of them, striking the delicate balance between composed and overly rigid as the interviewer flipped through their meticulously prepared resume and the accompanying files. Papers shifted with soft, deliberate movements—each page turned with an almost reverent care, each section scanned with an unreadable expression that left (Y/n) itching for a hint of acknowledgment.
(Y/n) waited.
Patiently.
Or at least, they made a valiant effort to appear patient.
Inside, however, their thoughts were anything but still. Every tiny sound felt like a thunderclap— the subtle slide of paper, the faint clink of utensils from nearby tables, the distant murmur of conversations that echoed like ghosts. Their eyes flicked up for just a fleeting second... then back down. Then up again, quick and subtle, as if they could catch a glimmer of emotion—a reaction, a shift, a hint of interest.
Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.
"...So," (Y/n) began carefully, their voice smooth and measured, a practiced calm. "I hope the layout isn't too cluttered. I tried to keep everything organized—clear sections, easy to follow, that kind of thing."
No response came.
The interviewer continued reading, her focus unwavering.
(Y/n)'s smile barely held in place, a fragile façade.
"I figured it'd be better to include multiple drafts and concept notes," they added, keeping their tone light but laced with professionalism. "It shows the process, not just the final result."
Still nothing.
A pause stretched like a taut line between them.
(Y/n)'s fingers twitched slightly against the polished surface of the table before they stilled themselves, resisting the urge to fidget nervously. Their gaze drifted again—quick, careful glances that sought to glean something, anything, from the interviewer's expression.
A clue.
A sign.
A reaction.
There was none.
"...Right," they murmured softly, more to themselves than anything, the weight of unreciprocated engagement settling heavily in the air.
Silence settled once more, thicker this time, a blanket of uncertainty.
This time, (Y/n) let it linger.
Their posture remained steady, an artificial calmness etched onto their face, but their eyes continued their subtle dance—glancing, retreating, returning—like a dancer trying to decipher a complex choreography that refused to reveal itself.
Then—
A voice sliced through the silence.
"I've finished reviewing your materials."
(Y/n) perked up instantly, a spark igniting in their demeanor. Their spine straightened, their expression sharpening into focus as if a switch had been flipped. Whatever uncertainty lingered was tucked away, replaced with practiced composure that felt like armor.
"Great," they replied smoothly, a small, confident smile returning to their lips. "I'm ready whenever you are."
And just like that, the interview began in earnest.
Questions were exchanged—clear, structured, professional—flowing like a well-rehearsed duet.
(Y/n) answered each one with precision, weaving in threads of their experience, their creative philosophy, their approach to design. They spoke with clarity, their words flowing concisely yet meaningfully, letting their ideas blossom without overwhelming the conversation. Occasionally, they asked thoughtful questions in return—targeted inquiries that revealed their engagement and curiosity.
Food arrived at some point, though it barely registered amid the rhythm of dialogue.
They nibbled between responses, careful not to disrupt the balance, maintaining an almost organic meld of casual dining and formal discussion. It felt... natural. Like this was exactly where they were meant to be.
And for a moment—
It seemed like it was going well.
Until it wasn't.
The shift was so subtle that (Y/n) almost missed it.
The interviewer's responses grew shorter, clipped. Her attention began to drift enough to be felt. The flicker of engagement that had barely been there to begin with seemed to wane, leaving behind something colder, a palpable distance.
Disconnected.
By the time the last question was asked, the atmosphere had morphed entirely.
"...I see," she stated flatly, closing the folder of their resume with a soft but final motion, a tangible end to the conversation.
(Y/n)'s smile remained steady, an unwavering mask.
"Is there anything else you'd like me to elaborate on?" they offered, keeping their tone even, though it felt increasingly fragile against the growing weight of silence.
She shook her head, her face a blank canvas.
"No."
A beat passed, the finality hanging like an unspoken goodbye.
Then she stood.
Just like that.
Just—done.
(Y/n)'s smile held, though something in their chest tightened, a sinking feeling taking root.
"Oh—alright," they mumbled, quickly gathering themselves, scrambling to maintain composure. "Thank you for your time, then."
She had already begun to leave, her footsteps fading into the background.
No goodbye.
No acknowledgment.
Not even a glance back.
(Y/n) watched her go, their expression frozen in place, their mind racing to grasp the abrupt end. A small part of them tried to rationalize it—maybe she was just like that. Straightforward. Efficient. Not one for pleasantries.
Yeah.
That had to be it.
...Right?
Still, that heavy, familiar feeling settled deep in their chest, an unwelcome weight that whispered of rejection.
Not their first.
Probably not their last.
Despite everything—the effort, the preparation, the qualifications—it never quite guaranteed anything, did it?
(Y/n) inhaled quietly, forcing their shoulders to relax as the subtle tension coiled within them. The café around them buzzed with muted conversations and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, but they focused elsewhere. "Hey—uh—quick question," they called out, striving to keep their tone casual, as if nothing were amiss. "When should I expect to hear back about the results?"
She paused, just for a second, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, without turning to face them—
"In a week or so."
A step forward, the soft click of her heels against the tiled floor echoed in the small space.
"...Or perhaps not at all."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the hum of the café.
(Y/n) sat there, rooted to the spot. Their smile remained, stretched just a little too thin now, the edges twitching ever so slightly as the weight of her words settled in like an unwelcome guest. They fixated on the empty space where she had just stood, as if willing her to reappear, to clarify— to say something else—anything that would infuse her sentence with a softness that it lacked.
It didn't happen.
"...Hah."
A quiet, breathy sound escaped them, the shadow of disbelief flickering across their features. The illusion cracked just a fraction.
"Wow," they murmured under their breath, their voice barely audible, as if saying it louder would only solidify the harsh reality rather than dull its sting. "That was... something."
They didn't move. Didn't drop the smile that had now turned fragile, the warmth it once held fading into an awkward mask of composure.
A figure approached cautiously from the side, breaking their trance. The waiter had been nearby the entire time—close enough to overhear fragments of the exchanged words—close enough to catch the tone, the shift, the weight of the ending. In his hand were several neatly folded tissues, white and stark against the café's muted hues.
"...Hey," he said gently, offering them out with an awkward, sympathetic expression that echoed their own discomfort. "Uh... for what it's worth..."
He trailed off, clearly unsure how to finish that sentence, the air wrapping around them like a thick blanket of uncertainty. He placed the bill on the table, the paper crumpling softly against the wooden surface.
"...Sorry."
(Y/n) blinked, finally prying their gaze from the spot where she had disappeared and looking up at him. Their smile twitched again, that delicate facade threatening to crumble. Then, slowly, they reached out and took the tissues, their fingers brushing the fabric lightly, as if it were something precious.
"Thanks," they murmured lightly, a hint of feigned nonchalance in their voice.
Like it didn't bother them at all.
Like everything was totally fine.
Like their world hadn't just taken a quiet, subtle hit.
And as they sat there—alone at the table, tissues in hand, untouched food in front of them—a profound stillness enveloped the space, making the ticking of time seem to creep back in.
There was a quiet click as the car door shut, sealing (Y/n) inside the cocoon of the vehicle. They moved with a kind of eerie calm, the practiced smile still plastered on their face as they carefully set their belongings into the worn passenger seat—the rumpled portfolio, a well-used notebook, and a stylus sliding into its designated pocket. Finally, they slid behind the wheel, the comforting familiarity of the leather welcoming yet suffocating.
For a moment, they just sat there, the world outside gently muted, transforming into a distant hum of life, oblivious to the storm brewing within.
Still.
Then, like a taut string about to snap, their hand curled around the steering wheel.
Their fingers pressed into the leather, knuckles paling as the tension coiled through their arm like a snake ready to strike. One of their eyes twitched—sharp and involuntary—as if their body was reluctantly betraying the calm they'd tried so hard to maintain. Before anything else could pierce through the thick fog of their thoughts—
.
.
.
*Thunk.*
.
.
.
Their forehead smacked against the wheel, the soft thud muffled by the stillness of the car.
They stayed there, suspended in the moment, teeth clenched, the taste of iron mixing with the unease swirling in their gut. Nails dug faintly against the leather, the sensation grounding yet frantic as their grip tightened even further. Their shoulders trembled, subtle at first, but then escalating into more noticeable quakes as they fought to contain it all—the frustration, the disbelief, that sinking, gnawing sadness twisting in their chest like a relentless vice.
A shaky breath forced its way in, stuttering against the walls of their lungs then out.
Their hand slipped from the wheel, rising to pinch the bridge of their nose, the pressure a temporary balm against the growing tide of panic. They hitched another breath, sharper this time, as if their body hadn't yet decided whether to remain composed or to give in to the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume them whole. Their toes curled inside their polished shoes, pressing against the smooth leather like they needed something—anything—to anchor them in reality.
"...I didn't blow that," they muttered under their breath, the words escaping strained and uncertain.
"I didn't."
They had answered everything. Every question, every prompt—honestly, clearly. They had smiled, stayed engaged, and acted exactly as they were meant to. Professional. Personable. Normal.
The interviewer had just been... like that.
Unexpressive.
That had to be it.
Right?
Not uninterested.
Just... hard to read.
Even when (Y/n) had spoken passionately about their work—the art of video game design, the intricate philosophies behind it—all the words had flowed freely, an eloquent stream of creativity. They hadn't stumbled. If anything, that had been their strongest point—the shimmering beacon amidst the fog of doubt.
So why did it feel like—
Their grip tightened again, knuckles whitening.
"...Yeah," they exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away with a fragile resolve. "Yeah. It's fine."
The word hung in the air, felt hollow, echoing back to them without conviction, as if the universe itself questioned its truth.
◦◦,°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°◦°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°,◦◦
By the time they arrived home, the tension hadn't fully dissipated—but it had dulled just enough for them to function. They stepped out of the car and paused, inhaling deeply. The crisp, cool air filled their lungs, held there for a moment too long, before they released it in a controlled stream, the warmth of their breath mingling with the chill.
"Stay calm," they murmured to themself, the words barely a whisper, yet heavy with intent.
They already knew.
They'd start knocking things over. Slamming doors. Breaking something without meaning to, not out of malice, but a whirlwind of frustration and unspent energy.
So they paced.
Back and forth in front of their door, steps measured and deliberate, like a pendulum swinging in an effort to find balance. Each pass drained a little more of the sharp edge coiled inside them. Their shoulders slowly lowered, stiff muscles loosening as their breathing paced, each inhalation and exhalation a quiet mantra of reprieve.
By the time they reached for the handle, their expression had smoothed into something manageable.
They stepped inside.
Silence greeted them like an old friend, welcoming yet eerily hollow.
But it barely lasted.
Their phone rang.
The sharp sound sliced through the quiet like a blade, jolting them back to reality. For a split second, they froze—then quickly reached into their pocket, the action rushed yet precise, pulling it out and glancing at the screen.
Another workplace.
Right.
The one they had already interviewed with, buzzing with faint flickers of hope.
Something in their chest loosened—just slightly.
They had backup.
"Okay," they muttered to themself, answering the call with a hint of determination. "Hello—"
The voice on the other end didn't waste time.
Polite. Professional. Apologetic.
(Y/n)'s smile returned automatically, even though no one could see it, the warmth feeling like a flicker of light amidst an encroaching darkness.
"Oh, no worries," they replied lightly at first, their tone easy, accommodating, an attempt to steady the growing unease within.
But as the explanation continued, something in that smile began to strain, the tension creeping back in.
Despite being a perfect candidate...
They were being dropped.
To make room.
New individuals.
New recruits.
Fresh starts.
"::They'll be learning to improve others' work,::" the voice continued, almost reassuring, yet it sounded distant, like waves crashing against a faraway shore. "::Including yours. You've done excellent work—truly—but we believe this is the direction we need to take.::"
(Y/n)'s fingers curled slightly around the phone, a subtle plea for stability.
There was a pause, heavy with unspoken words.
A brief one.
"...I see," they said finally, their voice still steady—still polite, fighting against the tide of disappointment.
There was more—something about projects, about how things would be handled moving forward. About how one of their works—specifically stated not to be touched—would now be part of that learning process, turning into collateral in the wake of change.
Something in their chest twisted.
Tighter.
But their tone didn't break; it remained a flimsy facade against the encroaching storm.
"Understood," they hummed, forcing a small, almost sheepish chuckle, trying to find humor in the absurdity. "I appreciate you letting me know."
Another apology.
Another reassurance.
"Yeah, no—it's alright," (Y/n) replied, though the words felt like ashes in their mouth. "Thank you for the opportunity."
And just like that—
The call ended.
Silence returned.
Thicker this time.
(Y/n) stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, their expression unreadable, as if carved from stone.
Then, slowly, they moved.
Their bag slipped from their shoulder, dropping unceremoniously onto the floor with a muted thud. Papers shifted inside, barely containing whispers of what could have been. Their keys clattered, jarring against the wooden floor, then their coat tumbled off like a discarded shell.
Just... dropped.
They stood there in the quiet.
Still.
.
.
.
*BANG!!*
.
.
.
The phone left their hand in a sharp, sudden motion, slamming into the wall with enough force to echo through the house, a primal release of pent-up emotion. The impact left a visible dent in the wall where it struck, a mark of their frustration, before it clattered to the floor. The sound lingered, a resounding reminder of their inner turmoil, then faded.
(Y/n) remained where they stood, chest rising and falling a little heavier now, the last of that strained composure finally cracking beneath the weight of it all.
And this time—
There was no one there to see it.
[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
[ 𝕆ℙ𝔼ℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕆𝔼𝕄 ]
[ ᑭᖇᗝᒪᗝǤᑌᗴ ]
[ CHAPTER 1 - ᗩ ᗯᗩᛕᗴ ᑌᑭ ]
>>[ CHAPTER 2 - Iᑎ丅ᗴᖇ-ᐯIᗴᗯ ]<<
[ CHAPTER 3 - ᗩ ᗷᖇᗴᗩᛕ? ]
[ CHAPTER 4 - ᗴᔕᑕᗩᑭIᔕᗰ ]