Bright - Tyler joseph

surrouinding all my surroundings

The thing about almost dying when you're sixteen is that you spend the rest of your life learning how to breathe.

Then. Age Sixteen.

I remembered the ceiling of my childhood bedroom like it was a person I used to know. Cracked plaster shaped like a country I'd never visit. I'd lie there for hours, climb the rooftop, and sit there until morning fell, the weight in my chest so heavy I thought my ribs might cave in. I'd trace those clouds with eyes that had forgotten how to cry.

I sat with my headphones on, listening to twenty one pilots' "Truce" on repeat. I'd switch songs from time to time, but mostly it was "Truce," "Lovely," "Addict with a Pen." I'd sit there, doodling and sketching, trying to make the world inside my head quieter than the one outside.

Present Day. Brooklyn.
Nayla's POV

I stepped back from my easel, paintbrush tucked behind my ear, and scowled at the half-finished skyline. Something was wrong with the fire escape. Something was wrong with everything.

I glanced over at Pip, my miniature dachshund, who was judging me from across the room with the weary disappointment of a creature who knew I should be sleeping.

Pip yawned. Judgmental little gremlin. I loved him violently.

My phone exploded across the room—Baby Hotline ringtone at full volume. It only meant one thing: Rhea was in crisis.

"WHAT."

"EMERGENCY," Rhea screamed back. "Tomorrow. Nine AM. Sarah sent a calendar invite with ALL CAPS and FOUR exclamation points. FOUR, Nayla."

"That's one more than last time."

"EXACTLY. This is either amazing or we're getting fired so she can turn the office into a plant store."

"Sarah's allergic to plants."

"DRAMATIC IRONY, Nayla. READ THE ROOM."

I laughed, and the sound surprised me. It had been a while since laughing felt easy. Since it didn't feel like I was performing for an audience of one: the ghost of Jacob, still lingering, still waiting to tell me I was too much.

Three years. Three years of shrinking myself into the negative space of his insecurity. Of watching his face tighten when I mentioned late nights or male clients. Of explaining to colleagues why my boyfriend needed to be backstage at every event.

He's just protective.

But love wasn't supposed to feel like a cage with a really comfortable bed.

I'd ended it six weeks ago.

Pip jumped down and headbutted my ankle, jolting me out of my head.

"I know," I whispered, scooping him up. "I'm being sad. You hate when I'm sad."

Pip licked my chin.

The office smelled like ambition and burnt espresso.

I walked in at 8:47—professional, but also needing those fifteen minutes to prepare for chaos. The conference room was already filling. Marcus from accounting with his World's Okayest Accountant mug. Priya, logistics queen, calm as always. Rhea, purple hair in an aggressive knot, pacing like a caged animal.

"Sit," I commanded. "You're making me nervous."

"I am nervous. What if it's bad? What if they want us to manage a children's party for a crypto bro?"

"Then we quit and start that plant store ourselves."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I."