The Orange at the End of the Hallway

The fluorescent lights of the forty-third floor hummed with that particular frequency that made Elena's teeth ache. She stood outside the conference room, watching through the glass as David — her *friend* of seven years, the man who'd been her plus-one at her mother's funeral — presented her marketing strategy as his own. His tie was orange today, a hideous choice that she'd jokingly bought him for Secret Santa three years ago.

He caught her eye through the glass and didn't even flinch. That was the worst part — not the theft of her work, but the casual way he'd decided their friendship was collateral damage. Worth the sacrifice.

Elena walked away from the glass doors, pressing the elevator button repeatedly with her thumb. She needed to get out of here, needed air that hadn't been recycled through a thousand other people's lungs.

The building's plaza was mostly empty at 4 PM on a Tuesday. She sat on a concrete bench and peeled the clementine she'd grabbed from the breakroom, her hands shaking slightly. The spray of citrus oil misted the air, sharp and bright — the smell of summers in her grandmother's backyard, of a time when betrayal meant someone stealing your colored pencils.

A *dog* trotted toward her, one of those elegant, sad-faced breeds that looked like it belonged in a Renaissance painting. It sat beside her bench and watched her with ancient, patient eyes. No collar.

"You too, huh?" Elena said. "Everyone leaves eventually."

The dog inched closer and rested its chin on her knee. She stroked its silken ears, realizing she was crying — hot, stupid tears over a friendship that had apparently meant everything to her and nothing to him. The dog's fur smelled like rain and other people's homes.

"He wore the tie," she told the dog, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "The orange tie I gave him. While presenting my work."

The dog made a soft sound, almost like a laugh.

Elena finished her clementine, letting the sticky juice coat her fingers. She stood up, the dog watching her with that gentle, unwavering attention. "Come on, then," she said. "Let's get you home."

It followed her without hesitation. As they walked away from the glass tower, Elena's phone buzzed — a text from David: *We should talk. Can we grab dinner?*

She deleted it without replying. Some things, once broken, couldn't be fixed. The dog pressed against her leg, and she kept walking.