It's been a long time, since you moved to America. It's been a long time since Aya's been happy. Eight years gone, and what's she done with them? Wasted them. Wasted them on relationships that don't matter, on kisses that stung instead of soothed, on touches that burned instead of cooled.
She's a mess. A mess, and she's lying here, naked in your bed in your monotonous, unfurnished L.A. apartment (so unlike the girl she used to know). She stares at the wall, numb.
She's only visiting. She came for work. The two of you haven't talked much, since the last time she visited, and you fought about your relationship, or...lack thereof. Aya remembers vowing to stay the fuck away, after that. You didn't deserve her tears if you "didn't know what to do" with them, again. And again.
Between hotel suites and relationship boundaries scribbled on napkins, you both try to keep your relationship strictly "physical and professional."
But static hearts have a habit of making a deafening noise when they finally start beating again...
