Demian said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched. Finally, he muttered, "I'm just shocked that she came back… after everything. Pretending like she doesn't love you anymore."
Maxon let out a loud, unexpected laugh. "Do you get what you just said?" he asked, playfully nudging Demian's leg. "She pretended! Bro, the girl still loves me. I knew it. I felt it in my bones."
Demian gave a small, tight-lipped smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He sat up slowly, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Yeah… maybe. Or maybe she just got tired of being angry."
"Angry or not, I don't care. What matters is she forgave me—and we're good now." Maxon said.
Demian stared at him, almost searching for something in his face. "You really love her, don't you?"
"Love her?" Maxon scoffed, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. "She's the one, Demian. The only one who gets me. Yeah, I messed up—but I'm not letting her go again."
Demian nodded slowly, as if forcing himself to accept it. "Right. That's… good."
He stood up, stretching casually. "Anyway, I need a shower. You should rest too. Big week ahead."
Maxon nodded eagerly, still grinning. "Don't worry. I'll be on top of everything. Life is finally going my way."
Demian gave a small smile and walked toward the hallway.
But once his back was turned, his face fell.
The night air was colder than usual as Isabella walked through the rusty gates of the orphanage. Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of the day's emotional storm. The scent of old cement, cooking smoke, and childhood memories greeted her as she stepped into the worn-out hallway.
She had barely dropped her bag on the bunk when she heard Mother's soft voice from the doorway.
"Isabella… Can I speak with you for a moment?"
Isabella turned, surprised. "Yes, Mother."
Mother Grace face looked tired, her smile forced. She gestured for Isabella to follow her into the small office at the end of the corridor.
The room was dimly lit, lined with books and dusty files. Mother Grace sat down behind her desk and took a deep breath, avoiding Isabella's eyes.
"I'm afraid the plans have changed," she said gently.
"Plans?" Isabella asked, confused.
Mother Grace looked up, her eyes filled with guilt. "You'll have to move out of the orphanage… tomorrow."
Isabella's heart sank. "Wait—tomorrow? But… why so soon?"
Mother Grace expression faltered. "There's been a new policy from the state. They're restructuring placements for adults over eighteen. And since you're not on any current support plan or scholarship, they want you transitioned out immediately."
Isabella's lips parted, wanting to protest, but no words came out. She clutched the edge of the desk, searching for something—anything—to hold on to.
"Please, Mother," she whispered. "I don't have anywhere else to go. Can't I just stay a little longer? Just until I find something?"
Mother Grace voice was soft but firm. "I'm very sorry, Isabella. There's nothing I can do about it."
Silence filled the room.
A tear slipped down Isabella's cheek, and she quickly wiped it away.
Mother Grace reached for her hand across the desk. "You're a strong girl. You've always been. I believe you'll figure something out. And you're not alone, okay?"
But it sure felt like she was.
Isabella nodded numbly, stood, and walked out of the office with a heavy heart. She went back to her bunk and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the small bag she had just dropped.
Tomorrow, it would be all she had.
Back to Demian's house
The room was dark except for the soft glow of the lamp by the bedside. Maxon lay on his back, one arm behind his head, eyes open and distant as the ceiling fan turned slowly above him.
Sleep refused to come.
His mind kept replaying the same moment—Isabella's voice in the car, her trembling words echoing over and over again.
> "Some of us can be homeless any moment…"
"Some of us don't even have a home… or parents."
Maxon turned on his side and exhaled deeply, raking his fingers through his hair. A pang of guilt squeezed his chest. He had never thought about what she might have been going through—too busy yelling, too busy blaming.
And that smile she gave him once... the one she wore when she didn't even have a reason to be kind.
He picked up his phone from the nightstand and stared at her name in his call list.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
One call. Just one.
But he didn't press it.
Instead, he locked the phone again and dropped it face-down.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath.
Why does she affect me this much?
Across the hallway, Demian sat alone in the soft light of his editing studio—his room still cluttered with camera gear and laptops. The screen in front of him was paused on a still image.
Isabella.
The shot was unplanned, accidental even. He had taken it the very first day he met her—just as she'd turned toward the lens while passing in front of the mall.
She wasn't posing. She wasn't smiling. Just... existing. And somehow, she had looked like art.
Demian leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, studying her face.
There was something about the way her eyes held so much depth behind so much silence. Something pure. Something real.
> "I don't want your money."
"I take pictures because I feel them. Not because I'm looking for a tip."
"I have a delivery to make now."
Her voice echoed in his memory like a whisper from a dream.
He sighed and leaned back, still staring at her photo.
"Why didn't I pay more attention
before?" he asked himself quietly
He closed his eyes and whispered, "I hope she's okay... wherever she is."