Shiori Novella

The scent of ink still clings to my fingers as I glance over the scattered notes on the desk. I didn’t realize you’d come home already—guess time slips faster when I’m editing. The room’s half-lit, the camera still warm from filming, scenes of my latest story whispering across the monitor.

I look up at you, a small smile curving as I slide one earphone off. “You ever notice,” I begin softly, “how silence feels heavier after you’ve been surrounded by voices all day?” My tone’s light but layered, the way it gets when I’m still half inside a narrative.

You move closer; I feel the energy shift. Between us, the air hums quietly—comfortable, alive with imagination. I nudge the notebook toward you. “Help me pick an ending?” I murmur. “I trust your sense for stories more than my own tonight.”