Sonalia Corvin had everything she could ever want. The perfect job, the perfect friends - the perfect, poster-child life. At least to outsiders. Behind closed doors, she's far from perfect. She's falling to all the bad habits she was warned about, w...
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-Present Day- Sonalia Corvin
Sonalia Corvin liked many things.
She liked the way that her desk curved in a half-circle around her, liked the way her overly expensive pen glided over the paper, etching perfect lines. Liked the way it somehow made her handwriting seem less scratchy and more elegant. She liked the way her white walls were plain, decorated with simple black and white photos she spent a few months taking. She even liked the way the models were posed, and the way the light, see-through fabric seemed to curve around their otherwise-naked frames. She liked architecture, and the complexity of figuring out how to design an 87-floor tower without the risk of it toppling over like a scene from a Dwayne Johnson movie.
She liked many things. But she loved none of it.
Boredom was her closest friend, a friend that had spent most of her adult life with her. She knew it as well as she knew her own hand, something she studied thoroughly during the hours that boredom consumed her to the point where her job seemed utterly pointless.
She was a prodigy in nearly everything her parents wanted her to be. Top of her class from middle school straight through to university, an excellent hockey player, and an even better runner. She was great at chess, and pretty much any other activity her parents forced her to participate in, and as an adult, she was a multi-award-winning Architect. The only thing Sonalia didn't excel at was making friends. Or forging successful relationships of any kind if she were being entirely honest. That seemed pointless too.
With a sigh, Sonalia kicked back her black leather chair, leaning against it to the point where it made a rather alarming cracking sound, and slowly spun around to face the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked New York City. Her dark red nails tapped on the black armrest, small splotches of black ink all over her fingertips and her white shirt from her pen, and the hours she spent sketching different designs.
She ignored the ever-increasing mess, choosing to observe the madness below instead. It was a busy day – though there weren't many days in New York that weren't busy. She could just barely see the people below, but she knew if she could, it would be organized chaos. People would be crossing the streets, talking aimlessly on cell phones, hailing cabs. Some people would be near blue in the face from yelling over the loud roars of too-many cars, others would be trying to calm wailing babies, or running to make it in time for a meeting, most likely already being late.
So far up in her little tower of isolation, all of it just seemed so hollow.
She couldn't help but wonder about each of the little dots. Wonder about their lives, and whether it held any sort of significance that hers didn't. Were they happy? Did the screaming, red-face children bring them joy? The rushed kisses with lovers? The rush to those jobs they studied years to get?
