The worn, leather-bound diary felt unusually heavy inside Hawasa's backpack. She had found it just hours ago, sitting completely abandoned on a cold train seat on her way home. There was no name on the cover and no address inside, only the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and pressed flowers. Driven by pure curiosity, Hawasa curled up on her bed, cracked the spine open, and began to read the handwritten pages of a girl named Nova Sinclair.

The ink was faint in places, as if the pen were running out or the writer had simply been too tired to press down.

January 05:

Woke up with the same hollow feeling. Coffee didn’t help; it just tasted like hot, bitter water. I went through the motions at the office, smiled when I was supposed to, and nodded until my neck hurt. Everything felt flat, like a 2D drawing of a life. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe the world is losing its color.

January 07:

Today, I got to the office early, actually hoping for some sunshine. But when did God ever start taking my requests?

I was buried in spreadsheets, trying to find a reason to care about data entry, and then he came. Not him, not the person my heart actually aches for, but some… guy.

Tall, dark hair that looked like he’d fought a whirlwind and lost, and an aura of "I don't care" that was loud enough to be an insult. He just plopped down in Zedrick’s chair. No "Excuse me," no "Is this taken?" Just... thud. Like he owned the floorboards.

I stared, waiting for him to feel the heat of my glare. I was irritated. Actually, I was disappointed. I wanted the sunshine, and I got a human rain cloud of annoyance instead. I turned back to my monitor, typing so hard I thought the keys might snap.

Then, the swinging started.

Squeak-swish, squeak-swish. That guy was treating the office chair like a Tilt-A-Whirl, laughing at his computer screen. I peeked once. Okay, twice. He’s wearing a hoodie three sizes too big, his hands half hidden in the sleeves. He looks like a messy bedroom personified.

“Focus, focus, focus,” I hissed to myself. Maybe tomorrow Zedrick will be back, and this chair thief will be a fever dream.

Suddenly, a voice cut through my internal rant. “What’s on the lunch menu?”

I ignored him. I am a professional. I am a ghost.

Poke. He actually shook my arm.

I stopped typing. I took a breath so deep it hurt my ribs. I turned to him with my most 'Corporate Ice Queen' stare and snapped, “Who the hell are you?”

He blinked, looking genuinely offended. “You don’t know me? Really???”

“Are you a celebrity?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Am I supposed to have your poster on my wall? I’ve never seen you in my life.”

He smirked. It was the most unbothered smirk in history. “Ah… that explains a lot.”

“What does that mean?”

He leaned back. “I guess you’re new… or just really obsessed with those spreadsheets. Either way, I’m Augustus. You can call me Gus. All my friends do.”

“Friends?” I sputtered. “Boy, I asked who you are, not for your life story!”

I tried to get back to work, but he just pointed at his screen. “Can you please bring me something to eat? I’m hungry. I like eating while watching a movie.”

“A MOVIE. In the OFFICE,” I whispered, horrified. “WHY. ARE. YOU. HERE?”

He spun the chair in a full 360-degree circle, stopping inches from my face. “I’m the new intern.”

“An intern?” I stood up, my chair flying back. “Then behave like one! Why are you in this chair? And why are you acting like this is a picnic in your father's company?”

"It is,” he shrugged.

“...What?”

“My father is the chairman,” he said, his face perfectly serious.

I didn't even blink. “Really? Oh, I feel so sorry for you. You must be the illegitimate child, because the chairman has only one son. He’s a doctor, his name is William, and he works at St. Larkswell. Try harder, 'Gus.'"

Augustus exploded into a laugh that echoed off the cubicle walls. “You got me! Woah, you’re a stalker! You know so much about his son… Don't tell me you’re into him? Is he your screensaver?”

I was this close to hitting him with my stapler. I needed coffee. I needed a new job. I needed to be anywhere but three feet away from this human headache.

As I marched toward the breakroom, he yelled after me: “Heeeyyy! You didn’t even take my order! Is the cafeteria lady nice? Get me something spicy!”

I hate January. I hate this office. And definitely this idiot.

_______________________________________________________

I didn’t look back. I just kept walking, my heels clicking a furious rhythm against the floor. What does he think I am? His personal waitress? Why would I bring him food? The audacity was actually vibrating through my skin. Unbelievable.

I grabbed a coffee, black, bitter, and angry and headed straight for the rooftop. I needed air. I got ice. The wind up there was freezing, but it was still better than my office cabin, where a certain irritating insect had magically manifested from the void. I took a sip of the coffee. “AAHHH!” It scorched my tongue.

Perfect. Absolutely, perfect. Nothing, literally nothing, was going my way. January 7th was officially the worst day of the year. Why me? Why was I the universe’s favorite punching bag today?

I was in the middle of a very private, justified mental meltdown when a voice drifted through the wind behind me.

“Oh Buttercup, here you are. I searched for you everywhere.”

I spun around. Of course. The legend himself. Augustus.

He just strolled toward me like we were in a park. “What are you doing here? Where’s my food? I was waiting. I told you I’m hungry; ohhh, it’s so cold out here.” And then, before I could even process his presence, he did it. He reached out, took the coffee right out of my hand, and took a long, casual sip.

I stared at him. I’m pretty sure my jaw hit the concrete. It felt like he’d just stolen the last slice of pizza in existence.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking over the rim of my cup. “Ehh… black coffee without sugar. Suits you.”

The dam broke. “MY NAME IS NOVA! NOVA SINCLAIR!”

He blinked at me like I was speaking a forgotten dialect of Ancient Greek. “Oh, sorry…,” he said, the smirk returning with a vengeance.

I folded my arms, my coat fluttering in the wind. “Do you know you could annoy a saint to death?”

He leaned casually against the railing, the city skyline behind him making him look far too confident for a coffee thief. Then he laughed. “Ahh, Buttercup… you’re adorable when you’re mad, you know that?”

I rolled my eyes so hard. “It’s NOVA!"

He set the cup down on the railing dramatically and tilted his head. “Nova… Nova… Nova…” He said it slowly, like he was testing the flavor of the word. Then he grinned. “Nah. You still look like a Buttercup.”

I gasped, genuinely offended. “WHAT part of me looks like a Buttercup!?”

He pointed a finger directly at my face. “That.”

“What?” I snapped.

“The way you get mad,” he said, squinting as if he were studying a rare species of angry bird. “Your nose flares. Your eyebrows try to fight each other. And your cheeks…”

“MY WHAT!?” I stepped closer, ready to riot.

“They turn pink.” He shrugged. “Like a tiny, angry flower.”

I was speechless. My soul was literally leaving my body to file a formal complaint with the universe. “Wow,” I finally managed. “Congratulations. That is officially the dumbest explanation I’ve heard in my entire life.”

He laughed again at that stupid, warm, infuriating sound.

I turned on my heel. If I stayed two more seconds, I was either going to scream or commit a felony.

“Hey!” he called out.

I didn’t turn around. “Choose your next word carefully,” I warned through gritted teeth.

He paused. For a second, the air felt different. Soft. Almost sincere. “You forgot your coffee.”

I turned to see him holding the cup out to me.

Empty. Of course. I grabbed it anyway, not because I wanted it, but because throwing it at him was still an option.

He laughed again. I just stood there, staring at him in pure disbelief. My hands were balled into fists, and I’m sure if steam could actually come out of a person’s ears, the rooftop would’ve been foggy.

“You actually think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” he asked, his laughter dying down into a lopsided grin.

“Yes,” I snapped without a second of hesitation.

He didn't get offended. Instead, he laughed again, softer this time. He turned away from me, leaning his elbows on the cold metal railing and looking out at the grey, vast sky. He exhaled a long, white puff of breath into the freezing air.

“You know,” he said. “You should laugh too. Everyone should. We should all laugh as much as we can... before it’s too late.”

I froze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the horizon. Last year, he started, his voice trembling slightly, “I wasn't in an office. I wasn't watching movies. I was in a hospital bed, staring at white walls and counting the drips in an IV bag.”

My breath hitched. I stepped a little closer, my anger vanishing.

“The doctors... they didn't give me much hope,” he continued. “A rare heart condition. 'Crystalised cardiomyopathy,' they called it. Sounds beautiful, right? Like my heart was turning into a diamond. But it just meant it was stopping. I spent six months wondering if every breath was my last. I lost my hair, I lost my strength... I lost the version of myself that knew how to be happy.”

He finally looked at me, and his eyes looked so glassy, so full of ancient pain. “So when I got a second chance,” he whispered, “I promised myself I’d never take a boring day for granted. I’d be the one who laughs too loud. I’d be the one who sits in the wrong chair. Because I know how quiet the end is.”

I felt like the smallest, meanest person on earth. “I... I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my voice thick with guilt. “Augustus, I had no idea. Look, I’m not a mean person, I swear. I’ve just had such a rough week, and everything felt so heavy, and I wasn't thinking straight. I shouldn't have been so rude to you.”

He looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You didn't know.”

We stood there in silence for a moment. The wind didn't feel as cold anymore; it felt like a shared moment of hush. I felt a weird connection to him, this man who was fighting to stay joyful in a world that had tried to break him.

I took a deep breath, feeling like I’d finally learned my lesson about judging people. “I should probably get back down,” I said gently. “Work, you know?”

He nodded, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

I turned and started walking towards the door, feeling a strange sense of peace. I was halfway there when his voice rang out behind me.

“Hey!”

I stopped and looked back sympathetically. “Yeah?”

Augustus was standing there, the sad expression completely gone. He let out a sudden, bark-like laugh and pointed at me. “I WAS JOKING! I’m totally fine! Crystallized cardiomyopathy? I made that up! It’s not even a real thing!”

The silence that followed was deafening. I didn't move, didn't breathe. I just watched him double over, clutching his stomach as he howled with laughter at my expense.

“You—you—your face!” he gasped between wheezes. “You were about to cry! Oh my god, you’re so gullible, Buttercup!”

The peace I felt? Gone. Sympathy? Evaporated.

I looked down at the empty coffee cup in my hand. Without thinking, I wound back my arm like a professional pitcher and launched it at his head with everything I had.

“YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHO!” I screamed.

He didn't even flinch. As the cup sailed towards his head, his hand shot out with lightning speed.

Clack.

He caught it by the rim with one hand, his fingers wrapping around it perfectly. He didn't stop laughing for a single second. He just held the cup up like a trophy, waving it at me as I stormed towards the door.

“Nice aim, Buttercup! Almost had me!”

His laughter followed me all the way down the stairs, ringing in my ears like a curse.

January 7th. I don’t just hate it. I want to delete it from the calendar.