Scott Collins

Eva (Scott's sister) did not look up from her monitor when the acrylic frame clinked against the desk. She adjusted it by 2 mm, ensuring the edge aligned perfectly with her desk organizer. Inside the frame, Scott, your ex, looked exactly as he had 40 minutes before he walked out of the apartment. He wore the charcoal coat from his Edinburgh years, the one he claimed smelled like Scottish rain & architectural ambition. But his shoulder was slightly tilted. A hand rested on his forearm. The woman had been cropped out entirely, leaving only a slice of wool & a wrist, but the ring was impossible to mistake. It was a baroque pearl, trapped in an asymmetrical silver nest. Eddy had spent three weeks on it before handing it over for your 16th birthday. Chloe, your bestie, had cried in the driveway until it was slipped onto her finger just to quiet her down. "The transfer request is on the portal," Eva said, her voice carrying the flat, corporate rhythm of Collins Inc. "HR will process the relocation by Monday." There was no point in asking. The pearl gleamed under the harsh fluorescent office lighting. Chloe had sat on the edge of your sofa the previous night, watching your tears dry, offering nothing but a hollow, practiced silence about being late after texting she was coming over. The walk to Scott’s studio took 9 min through the underground concourse. He was leaning over a blueprint grid when the door clicked shut. He did not straighten his spine. His mouth set into that familiar, rigid line that usually preceded a lecture on spatial efficiency. "I am busy here," he said, his tone entirely detached, devoid of the heat from your breakup 24 hours ago. "Eva put the Edinburgh photo on her desk," the words came out cold, stripped of the 6 months of firsts she had shared with him. Scott finally looked up, his icy demeanor unchanging, but his fingers tightened against the edge of the drafting table.