Beneath A Broken Heart

“Bella, you’re burning the candle at both ends again,” Maya says, leaning against the doorframe of my office, her arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”

I glance up from my laptop, meeting her eyes with a raised brow. Maya is always the one to worry about me, to remind me of things I’d rather not think about. My fingers hover over the keys, the cursor blinking impatiently as I type out an email response to a client.

“I’m fine,” I reply, keeping my tone even, as I type another sentence. “You know how important this presentation is.”

Maya steps inside, dropping into the chair across from my desk. Her eyes never leave me, studying me like she’s waiting for me to crack, like she’s waiting for me to admit that, yes, I am tired. That I am lonely. That I might need help.

“You’ve been working late every night this week,” she says softly, almost like a mother. “And you haven’t answered my texts for two days. This isn’t healthy, Bella.”

I can feel the tension in my shoulders, the familiar tightness that always accompanies these conversations. Maya is my best friend, the one who’s known me through thick and thin, but sometimes, I wish she didn’t care so much. Sometimes, I wish she’d just let me be.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice firmer this time. “I’m focused. I’m doing what needs to be done.”

She sighs, pushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches me. Maya knows me too well. She knows that I’m lying. But she also knows that there’s no point in arguing with me when I’ve set my mind on something.

I glance back at my screen, feeling the weight of her gaze. I need to finish this report, and I need to do it now. I don’t have time for distractions.

Maya doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, she sits quietly, her presence a reminder of everything I’ve been avoiding. The truth is, I’m exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. But I can’t afford to let up. Not now. Not after everything I’ve worked for.

“You know,” she says, breaking the silence, “you can’t keep pushing people away, Bella. You can’t keep shutting everyone out.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. It’s true. I’ve been pushing people away for years. And every time I let someone in, they end up hurting me. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” I snap, before I can stop myself. “I’m fine. I’m in control.”

Maya’s expression softens, but there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. “You’re not a robot, Bella. You can’t do everything on your own. You’re allowed to need someone.”

I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to snap at her again. Instead, I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping as I push away the frustration building inside me.

“I don’t need anyone, Maya,” I say, my voice quieter this time. “I just need to get through this. Just need to finish this project.”

Maya doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she stands up, walking to the window behind my desk. She glances out at the bustling city below, her back turned to me. I know what she’s doing—she’s giving me space to breathe. To think. But it doesn’t change anything.

I can’t afford to get distracted. Not by her concern. Not by anything.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Maya says, her voice quiet, almost resigned. “But I do hope you’ll think about what I said. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

“I won’t,” I mutter, though I’m not entirely sure I believe it. I feel the weight of my words, knowing they’re just another lie I tell myself.

Maya hesitates for a moment before leaving, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she exits. The door clicks softly behind her, and I’m left alone in the silence of my office, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound.

I shake my head, trying to focus again. I open the report, scanning the data, my mind quickly slipping into work mode. This is what I do best—shut everything out and focus on what I can control.

I’ve been doing it for years now, ever since that day.

That day.

I shove the thought away before it can take root. I can’t afford to go down that path again. Not now. Not when everything is finally falling into place.

At 28, I’m finally on the verge of a breakthrough in my career. As a marketing executive at a prestigious firm, I’ve worked tirelessly to climb the ladder. I’ve earned every promotion, every recognition, and I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. But it hasn’t come without sacrifice.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost time for the weekly team meeting, and I still need to go over the client’s feedback one last time. My phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts, and I glance at the screen to see a message from Maya. Don’t ignore me, Bella. I’m serious about this. Call me when you can.

I roll my eyes, tossing the phone back onto the desk. Maya doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get how much I’ve sacrificed to get to where I am. How many sleepless nights I’ve spent, how many social events I’ve skipped, how many times I’ve ignored the gnawing emptiness in my chest.

She doesn’t understand because she hasn’t had to.

I stand up and straighten my blazer, smoothing the fabric down with quick, practiced motions. It’s time to face the day, to face the world outside this office.

As I walk into the meeting room, the chatter of my colleagues fills the air. They greet me with smiles, their faces lit up by the prospect of the upcoming presentation. But even as they speak, I feel the distance between me and them. I’m always a little separate. A little distant. I’ve always been this way.

The meeting begins, and I slide into my seat, my focus immediately shifting to the task at hand. I answer questions with ease, offering sharp, well-thought-out responses that make me the star of the presentation. I can feel their respect, the way they look at me, the way they admire my confidence and intelligence. But it’s all surface-level. None of them know the real me. None of them see the cracks beneath the polished exterior.

I catch a glance from James, one of my colleagues, who flashes me a smile. I smile back, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. I know what he’s thinking. He’s probably imagining that we’ll go out for drinks after the meeting, that he’ll try to charm me like he does with all the women in the office. But I’ve been down that road before. I’m not interested. Not in him. Not in anyone.

When the meeting wraps up, I gather my things quickly, eager to return to my office. As I walk down the hall, I feel a tug of hesitation. I glance out the window, my reflection staring back at me, and for a moment, I’m not sure who I see. The confident, driven woman in the glass or the one who’s been running from her past, hiding behind her work.

I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I have my career, and that’s all I need.

I arrive back at my desk, sinking into my chair. The weight of the day presses down on me, but I can’t let up. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

A notification pings on my phone, and I glance at it, my heart sinking as I see Maya’s name again. I’m really worried about you, Bella. Please talk to me. You don’t have to go through this alone.

I exhale sharply, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. But I don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, I focus on the next task, letting the noise fade away.

"Let’s just get this done," I mutter under my breath, as my fingers fly across the keyboard, determined to keep going.

“Do you mind if I take your picture?” The voice pulls me from my thoughts, soft yet assertive, cutting through the bustling noise of the city street.

I blink and glance up, momentarily disoriented by the sudden interruption. Standing in front of me is a man, his presence commanding yet casual, as if he belongs to the street and not the polished offices of this city. He holds a camera in his hands, the lens pointing toward me, but it’s not the camera that catches my attention. It’s the way he stands—tall, confident, yet with a certain air of hesitation, like he’s not entirely sure if I’ll accept his request.

“Sorry, what?” I ask, my voice laced with confusion as I push a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

His lips curve into a smile, the kind that’s not quite a grin but more of an invitation to something spontaneous, something that feels different from the usual polished encounters I’m used to. “I’m Lucas,” he says, his voice steady, almost soothing. “I’m working on a project, and you have this... perfect vibe for it. Would you mind?”

I look at him for a moment, studying the sharp angles of his face, the messy brown hair falling over his forehead in a way that suggests he doesn’t care to tame it. His eyes, dark and focused, meet mine with an intensity that’s disarming, but there’s a quiet gentleness in them, like he’s waiting for permission to invade my personal space. It’s not the first time someone has asked to take my picture, but there’s something different about this man. He’s not pushy, not demanding. He’s simply... curious.

I hesitate, the world around us continuing to rush by. The hum of the city, the honking of car horns, the distant chatter of pedestrians—all of it fades for a moment, leaving only the two of us standing there. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, but it’s not invasive. It’s like he’s seeing something in me that I’ve been too busy to notice.

“Sure,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it. It’s not like me to be so spontaneous, but something about the way he asks makes it feel like the right choice. “Go ahead.”

His eyes light up, and he raises the camera, his fingers moving quickly but with practiced ease as he adjusts the settings. “Thanks,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. Then, he looks at me again, his expression softening. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I reply, my voice quieter now, unsure of what’s happening. I’ve never been the type to engage with strangers like this. My world has always been structured, controlled, and planned. But Lucas... he doesn’t seem to care about structure. He’s an artist, in every sense of the word, capturing moments in time as they unfold around him.

As he takes the first shot, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of vulnerability. It’s not the kind of vulnerability I’ve grown used to in the business world—where everything is calculated and controlled—but something raw, something real. He’s not just taking a picture of me; he’s capturing a part of who I am, even if I don’t fully understand what that part is.

“You’ve got a great face for photos,” Lucas says as he lowers the camera, his voice full of admiration. There’s no flirtation in his tone, just a genuine appreciation for what he’s seeing. “It’s like... there’s a story in your eyes.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Usually, people just notice my polished exterior, the carefully crafted image I present to the world. But Lucas isn’t looking at me like that. He’s looking at me like he sees something beneath the surface.

“Thanks,” I say, though the words feel inadequate. “I’m not sure what story that is.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and easy. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to know. The story’s already there, you just have to let it unfold.”

I nod slowly, absorbing his words, though I’m not entirely sure I understand. What does he mean by that? What story does he see in me? I can’t shake the feeling that this brief encounter is somehow significant, even though it’s so fleeting, so random.

“So, what’s your project?” I ask, hoping to shift the focus away from myself. I’m not used to being the center of attention, especially not in this way. I’m more comfortable behind the scenes, controlling the narrative. But Lucas... he’s different. He’s comfortable in the chaos, in the unpredictability of the moment.

Lucas raises his camera again, scanning the street with a thoughtful expression. “It’s a street photography project. Capturing raw, unfiltered moments of people’s lives—those little, unnoticed instances that tell more about someone than any posed portrait could.”

His words hit me with unexpected force. Raw. Unfiltered. Those are words I don’t often associate with myself. I’ve built a life around control, around making sure every moment is carefully crafted, every interaction polished to perfection. But Lucas—he seems to thrive in the messiness of life. In the unpredictability.

“Sounds like an interesting project,” I say, trying to mask the surprise in my voice. “You must have seen some pretty interesting things.”

He meets my gaze again, his eyes dark and intense. “I’ve seen a lot. Some beautiful, some heartbreaking. But I think it’s the imperfections that make people real.”

I can’t help but feel a pang of discomfort at his words. Imperfections. I’ve spent my entire adult life avoiding them, hiding them behind carefully constructed facades. But here’s Lucas, standing in front of me, telling me that those imperfections are what make people real. I don’t know if I agree with him, but there’s something in the way he says it that makes me wonder.

“So, you’re a photographer?” I ask, needing to change the subject, needing to keep the conversation grounded in something I can understand.

Lucas shrugs, the camera still hanging loosely in his hands. “Yeah, freelance. I’ve been doing it for a few years now. But I don’t just take pictures. I tell stories with them. It’s not about the perfect shot, it’s about the moment—the emotion.”

I nod, my mind processing his words. I’ve always been a woman of logic, of plans, of numbers. I’ve built my career on precision, on knowing exactly what to do and when to do it. But Lucas... he’s a man of instinct, of feeling. He captures the essence of things, not just the surface.

“I grew up in a small town,” he continues, almost as if he’s reading my thoughts. “Left when I was 18. I wanted more than what that place could offer. So, I started traveling. Took my camera with me. Saw the world. Never really settled anywhere. Never felt like I belonged anywhere, to be honest.”

His voice drops a little, the lightness fading as he speaks about his past. There’s a hint of something I can’t quite place—something like longing, or maybe regret. It’s fleeting, but I catch it.

“That sounds... lonely,” I say before I can stop myself. I didn’t mean to sound so blunt, but the words are out before I can retract them.

Lucas doesn’t seem offended. Instead, he smiles, though it’s a little sad. “It’s not so bad. I’ve learned to be alone. It’s a different kind of freedom.”

I think about that for a moment, about the freedom he describes. I’ve always been surrounded by people, by deadlines, by expectations. I’ve built my life around being needed, being useful. The thought of being alone, of truly being free, is both terrifying and alluring at the same time.

“So, you’ve never wanted to settle down?” I ask, my voice quieter now, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Lucas shakes his head slowly, his gaze drifting away as he watches a couple walk by, laughing. “Not really. I’ve seen what happens when people try to make forever out of something that’s not meant to last. It doesn’t work. It just ends up messy.”

His words hit me harder than I expect. Messy. I know what he means. I’ve seen it too. I’ve been through it.

“I understand,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if I do. I’m not sure if I agree with him either. But I don’t argue. I can see the conviction in his eyes, the certainty that he’s right.

Lucas lowers the camera, and for a moment, there’s a silence between us, a quiet understanding. He’s not trying to sell me a dream or a fantasy. He’s not offering me anything, except the chance to exist in this moment with him.

“You’re interesting,” I say finally, my voice softer than I expect.

He smiles again, that same knowing smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Bella.”

The sound of his name on my lips feels strange, unfamiliar. I don’t know why, but I can’t shake the feeling that this encounter is more than just a random moment in time. It’s something else, something I can’t quite put into words.

“Well, I should get going,” Lucas says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “But I’m glad we met. I think I’ll be coming back to this street a lot.”

I smile, nodding. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe,” he says, his eyes twinkling. And with that, he turns, walking down the street with the same casual confidence he arrived with.

I watch him go, the click of his camera still ringing in my ears.