Distortion

He knew something was wrong. She couldn’t have taken a sick day. Lauren wasn’t like that. She’d drag her body forward even if she were dead. She’d put it in order, do her hair, hide the pallor of her cold skin with makeup, but she wouldn’t show weakness. He opened the apartment door without even thinking, as if afraid of being late. Afraid of not saying something, afraid of seeing what could stop him. “Lauren?” he asked, closing the front door behind him. The silence in the apartment rang, but deep inside, he heard a rustle and a quiet sob. Hesitating on the threshold, giving the girl time, he moved toward the bedroom. She was sitting on the floor by the wall, and the wall above the dresser was smashed, plaster lost in the milky-colored fluffy carpet. The apartment was the same as last time, but even it had become 'different.' Renovated, filled with sunlight, but artificial in its hotel-like coziness. Clutching a sheet of paper in her hand, she wasn’t looking at him, her tired gaze fixed on the hole in the wall. Nearby lay tear-damp tissues with black smudges—even now, she was trying to compose herself while everything inside was falling apart. “What are you doing here?” she asked, not recognizing her own hoarse voice, regaining its former firmness. “Why aren’t you at work?” James countered, knowing even here they could be overheard. “Not feeling well,” she gestured vaguely with her shoulder, smirking defiantly. “Tonight’s the Martinez society reception,” Barnes reminded her, deciding to take the paper from the girl, but she pulled her hand back. “You can handle the Mexicans who got rich on drug trafficking yourself,” Lauren, leaning on a chair, got to her feet, which had gone numb. “I have no doubt.” “I didn’t approve your leave,” he snatched the paper while the girl was distracted. Skimming the painfully familiar handwriting, Barnes understood Lauren had figured it all out long ago. She’d hidden it from everyone, even from herself, but, realizing her end was near, had hidden this letter in case it was found. James shook the letter, getting Lauren’s attention. “You’re supposed to accompany me.” “Do you know anything about them?” Understanding his hint, Lauren bit her lip, holding back the questions that were only piling up in her head. “A bit,” James nodded. “You can tell me the rest on the way.” “Wait for me in the living room,” the girl sighed quietly, pulling herself together. “I’ll get ready. Want some tea?” “Don’t bother,” he shook his head. “I’ll manage.” Lauren didn’t answer, closing the door behind him. Slowly, lost in thought, she sorted through her dresses. What did the line 'I am gone' mean? How could she have written a letter to herself? Why didn’t she remember it? The handwriting was definitely Lauren’s—she wouldn’t mistake it—but the words were foreign, ripped from another life. “I need help,” Lauren called out, opening the door slightly. She was holding the dress against her chest but couldn’t fasten it. “How did you fasten it last time?” Barnes froze in the doorway, looking at the girl who had turned away from him. He remembered this dress. Burgundy, like spilled blood, like a throbbing, unhealed scar, like Lauren inside. This dress on her was stronger than any weapon, piercing not flesh but the soul. “Just help,” she answered nervously, looking at herself in the mirror, not entirely sure about the choice. *Too bright? * “Alright,” he exhaled, approaching her. He pulled the zipper up, fastening it, fighting the urge to pull it back down. Touching her warm back, James zipped the dress to the top and took a step back, looking at Lauren’s smooth silhouette. “I’m ready,” she turned to him with a hint of uncertainty in her voice, looking at the thoughtful Barnes. “Something wrong?” “It suits you,” he coughed hoarsely, looking away at his watch. “We still have time.” “Great,” shivering from the anxiety the once-safe apartment now provoked, Lauren stepped onto the landing. James, lightly tapping the railing, waited for her to lock the door. Draping a light shawl the color of her dress over her shoulders, Lauren pressed the elevator call button. Straight back, precise movements, stern gaze—maybe this *was* the real Lauren Winter? The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside, assessing herself in the mirror. “You’re going in that?” she asked, adjusting the collar of James’s shirt. “Think we have time to change?” he smirked, looking her up and down. “Agreed, we don’t,” the girl averted her gaze. Going downstairs, they got into the car, closing the partition from the driver. Lauren, placing her bag on her lap, was burning with impatience to figure everything out. “So?” Lauren turned to James, clutching her clutch with slender fingers. “Quiet,” Barnes lowered his voice, leaning toward the girl. He looked into her gray eyes, hesitating for a moment whether to go against Valentina’s plan. Every fiber of his being wanted to be closer to her, to touch her warm skin, to feel her breath, but her gaze, full of incomprehension, still brought him back to reality. “I can’t tell you.” “What?!” Lauren boiled over in a second, grabbing Barnes by the sleeve of his jacket. She pulled him toward her, and the man felt her breath on his lips. “I dragged myself out to this stupid meeting, dressed up like a trophy wife just to find out what that letter was about, and you…” Barnes listened as long as he could. Until he realized any word would only trap them both deeper. He snapped — not from anger, but from the exhaustion of pretending there was nothing between them. The kiss ignited like a short circuit. Inappropriate, sharp, almost desperate — but it held everything they’d avoided: anger, fear, desire, and that quiet “don’t go” no one dared to say aloud. She wanted to push him away, say something sharp, but her body betrayed her — her fingers just tightened on the fabric of his jacket. And for a moment, it seemed everything that had been crumbling between them suddenly came back together — unevenly, painfully, but alive. “I really can’t,” he whispered to her right against her lips, pulling away. Lauren, pressing her lips together, still felt his warmth, not knowing what to say. The thoughts in her head scattered, leaving a feeling as if she had wanted this for a long time but somehow forgotten. The girl couldn’t lift her gaze, as if all her defenses had shattered from that brief, genuine, almost life-saving contact. She couldn’t piece herself back together, pretend to be cold again, pretend nothing had happened. “Valentina?” Lauren asked, her voice tight, twisting the ring on her finger. He nodded, but something flickered in his gaze — weariness, or guilt. And Lauren understood: the truth would still cost them both too much.