The alarm clock's shrill buzz cut through the silence of Eleanor's small apartment, but she didn't stir. Her body felt heavy, her bones weighted with exhaustion, her eyelids glued shut with a dreamless fatigue. It wasn't until the second alarm—her backup—went off that she jolted upright, heart thudding with panic.
The light seeping through the cracked blinds told her the truth before her phone screen confirmed it: she was late.
Her supermarket shift began in twenty-five minutes. The walk alone took fifteen.
"Damn," she whispered, stumbling out of bed, grabbing the first uniform shirt she could find from the chair by her desk. It smelled faintly of detergent, but beneath it lingered the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and cologne. Gabriel's cologne. Her face warmed. Last night she had pressed her cheek against his chest in the dark, listening to his heartbeat as if it were music. She had slipped out of his apartment when dawn was only a grey blur across the city skyline, the world still asleep.
Her feet still ached from standing in high heels, her lips still swollen from his careless, hungry kisses. She had gone home with her soul brimming, but her body had collapsed into exhaustion.
Now she was paying for it.
She didn't even have time for coffee. She shoved her hair into a hasty bun, slung her bag over her shoulder, and raced out the door.
---
Eleanor's Day
By the time she clocked in, her supervisor's disapproving stare burned like a brand against her skin.
"You're lucky we're short-staffed," the woman muttered.
"I'm sorry," Eleanor murmured, bowing her head.
The supermarket was crowded, a constant tide of voices and footsteps, but Eleanor drifted through it like a ghost. She stacked shelves mechanically, her stomach growling with hunger, her throat dry. She hadn't eaten breakfast, hadn't even packed lunch. Her paycheck was already half-allocated in her head: rent, electricity, bus fare. The small leftover sum—if she was careful—could become something more precious: a ticket to Gabriel's next concert.
She caught herself calculating during her shift. If she skipped lunches for a week, if she walked home instead of taking the bus, if she resisted the lure of cheap takeout on late nights—yes, she could manage it. She had to.
Because what if she wasn't there in the crowd? Would he still feel her? Would his eyes still skim the audience, searching for her familiar outline? What if he looked and didn't find her?
The thought was unbearable.
At noon, her coworkers huddled together near the break room table, chatting animatedly as they tore open sandwiches and scrolled through their phones. Eleanor sat apart, a small carton of water clasped between her hands.
"Did you see what Adam posted?" one girl laughed. "He actually proposed at the bar! Can you imagine?"
"God, that's so tacky," another replied, rolling her eyes.
Their conversation spiraled—boyfriends, family trips, birthday parties. A small universe Eleanor wasn't part of. She had nothing to contribute. She couldn't say, Last night, I was in Gabriel Hale's bed. Last night, I kissed the man you all dream about.
Even if she could say it, she wouldn't. Because then they would ask questions. Questions she couldn't answer without unraveling the fragile threads of her reality.
So she just smiled faintly, sipping her water, her silence invisible to them.
Her identity—her entire sense of self—felt hollowed out, carved into a vessel where only Gabriel lived.
---
That Evening
The restaurant buzzed louder than usual, a group of young women filling one corner booth. Eleanor served them their drinks with polite efficiency, her hands trembling slightly from exhaustion.
"Can you believe it?" one of the women gushed as soon as Eleanor stepped away. "Gabriel and Olivia at the St. Regis rooftop last night. There are pictures all over the blogs."
Eleanor froze, tray still in her hands.
"They're so perfect together. Honestly, I think this time it's serious."
She didn't move until the weight of the tray reminded her she was standing still in the middle of the aisle. Slowly, carefully, she set it down behind the bar and returned to the table, smile plastered firmly across her face.
"Another round?" she asked lightly.
The girls nodded, already lost again in their chatter.
Her chest ached, but her smile didn't falter. She told herself it didn't matter. She had seen Gabriel with Olivia before—on magazine covers, red carpets, whispered rumors swirling like smoke. But those women didn't know what Eleanor knew.
He always came back.
Always.
And so she carried the drinks, placed them gently on the table, and walked away with that small, secretive smile tugging at her lips.
He would never let me go.
---
Gabriel's Night
Across the city, Gabriel Hale tilted his glass beneath the twinkling skyline, the rooftop bar glowing golden under strings of fairy lights. Olivia leaned against the railing, her laughter carrying over the hum of music. She was radiant tonight, dressed in silver silk that clung to her figure, her hair pinned back in a way that revealed the elegant slope of her neck.
Gabriel loved watching people watch her. Heads turned when she moved, waiters lingered when she smiled, photographers crouched near the entrance hoping for another stolen shot.
She belonged in the light, dazzling and untouchable.
And Gabriel—he liked basking in that shine.
But even as Olivia touched his arm, her perfume sweet and expensive, another face tugged at the corners of his mind. Eleanor.
Plain little Eleanor, who waited for him in shadows. Who would drop everything, risk anything, just to be near him.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
Olivia thrilled him. Eleanor anchored him.
He didn't see a contradiction.
"I deserve both," he thought, watching Olivia's lips move as she told a story. He wasn't listening, not really. "One for the stage, one for the shadows."
---
The End of the Day
When Eleanor finally stumbled home past midnight, her body screamed with exhaustion. She changed slowly, tugging her loose uniform shirt over her head, her shoulders aching from carrying trays.
She sat on her bed and pulled out the box she kept beneath it. Inside were mementos: crumpled ticket stubs, a worn wristband, a faded poster. She traced her fingers over the oldest concert ticket, the ink nearly smudged away from years of handling.
Clutching it close, she whispered his name like a prayer.
"Gabriel."
Her eyes closed, and sleep claimed her in seconds.
Across the city, Gabriel leaned in and kissed Olivia goodnight, his hand at the small of her back as cameras flashed from the shadows.
Two worlds, running parallel. One of devotion. One of desire.
Neither colliding—yet.