Chapter 20. Tension Between Lines

The sky outside the office was streaked with silver. Not stormy—just overcast, the kind of cloud cover that never quite delivered rain but cast everything in a dull, contemplative glow. The kind of weather that seemed to suspend time. Ren sat in the far corner of the open-floor tech division, fingers poised over the keyboard but unmoving. The lines of code on his screen blurred, not from fatigue, but from something far more visceral.

Aika was in the building.

Again.

It had been three days since the server room incident. Three days since her hands had steadied his chair. Since her voice had pierced the chaos in his chest and pulled him back from the spiralling edges of panic. And three days since she'd muttered those words—You again—with the same casual defiance she'd used two decades ago, standing between him and a rooftop fight that should have broken him.

But she didn't remember.

At least… not consciously.

Ren had replayed the moment countless times in his head. Her tone, her posture, the way her brow furrowed for a heartbeat when their eyes met. There had been something there. A pause. A flicker of something unspoken. But then it was gone—washed away under her sharp professionalism and relentless purpose.

Aika was here now for the third scheduled audit review, and this time, it wasn't in a boardroom. It was at his own division's floor.

He could hear her voice before he saw her. It had changed. A little deeper than the one he'd carried in his memories. But still clear, firm, unafraid to cut through silence.

"Cross-check every system call and time stamp. No discrepancy goes unexamined."

She stepped into the tech floor, tablet in hand, hair swept up in a neat twist, her black blouse tucked seamlessly into sharp charcoal slacks. She looked every bit the accomplished attorney—the woman who made corrupt companies sweat in their suits.

Ren didn't raise his head. He didn't have to. He could feel the change in the air. It was as if the static around him recognized her, remembered her. Just like he did.

Aika walked past the rows of desks and terminals, greeting no one but taking everything in. Her gaze paused briefly on his workstation. Only briefly.

Then she spoke. "I need the backend trace logs from the last three push cycles. And anything flagged from the firewall behaviour monitor."

Ren nodded silently and typed. He didn't look up.

Aika waited. And for some reason… she felt a strange weight settle in her chest.

Why did this man feel familiar?

Why did she feel the urge to pause—like she was supposed to recognize something she'd forgotten?

She blinked and shook it off.

Focus, Aika.

When he handed her the files on a flash drive, their fingers brushed.

Nothing dramatic. No electric shock. No world-bending twist.

Just the quiet collision of two timelines still orbiting each other.

Ren didn't speak.

He couldn't.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to say something, anything—Do you remember? Did you ever read the letter? Do you know I still draw you when I can't sleep?

But he didn't.

Because he was afraid.

Afraid that if he shattered the fragile illusion they lived in now, she would vanish again. And he didn't think he could survive losing her twice.

So he looked down.

And Aika… stared at him a second longer than she meant to.

There was something behind his eyes. Something that tugged at the very edges of her memory.

But she pushed past it.

Déjà vu. That was all.

The rest of the day blurred.

Ren worked in silence, his code cleaner than ever, every line typed with hands that trembled only when no one was looking.

Aika met with executives. Delivered sharp-tongued truth to men twice her age who couldn't handle being wrong.

She was magnificent.

And Ren hated how much he still loved her so much.

At lunchtime, he stayed behind, staring at the untouched sandwich on his desk.

From the window, he could see the reflection of the empty hallway behind him. And in it… he caught a flicker of movement.

Her.

She was walking by. Heading toward the lift.

She didn't look in.

But for that brief moment, Ren allowed himself to watch her without guilt.

And something inside him cracked.

That evening, as the office emptied out, Ren wheeled himself toward the small server archive on the 17th floor. He didn't expect anyone to follow.

But Aika did.

Not because she intended to—but because a part of her told her something unfinished lingered in the quiet.

She found him there, alone, filing the digital logs manually into the review system.

"You're still here," she said.

Ren startled.

Then nodded. "Just... finishing up."

She glanced at the flickering screen, then down at him. "You should go home. It's late."

He didn't answer.

And she didn't walk away.

"Have we met before?" she asked, voice low.

Ren froze.

A beat.

Two.

He forced a smile. "You mean here? In this office?"

"No," she said. "Before."

He swallowed. "I… don't think so."

And he hated himself for the lie.

But he wasn't ready.

Not yet.

Aika nodded slowly. Her gaze lingered on him. Then she turned to leave.

Halfway to the door, she paused.

"I'm not good at forgetting people," she said softly. "But sometimes… life makes you forget anyway."

Then she walked out.

And Ren sat in the glow of the servers, the words sitting heavy on his chest.

What do you do when the person you've waited for finally stands in front of you… but doesn't remember you at all?