A/N: On a total binge of Darvey angst. My goodness.

The lights don't look the same from Louis's office.

Donna made a choice. She's not going to apologize for it, not aloud, and not to herself. She gets up at the same hour every morning, slips on the same Louboutins she would have worn on Tuesday anyway, and drinks the same coffee she always has.

(If she misses making his coffee, black-two-sugars-splash-of-vanilla-thank-you-Donna, she doesn't let herself admit that, either)

(Louis drinks smoothies in the morning, vile pulpy things that make her grimace)

The day spins on like it used to. Or not. It doesn't really matter, because this is still Pearson-Specter-Litt (recent, that name, but it will always be Pearson, of course) and there is still too much glass and too much paper and not enough said even when everyone's talking.

This little microcosm is her world. If she turned it upside down, it was because she had to.

(Sometimes she looks out the window and expects the skyscrapers to be hung the other way round)

The lights don't look the same at night. It was always her favorite hour, a long and productive day, a glass of scotch between her fingertips and her feet on Harvey's desk.

And he's lounging or standing or doing whatever he does with aggressive grace, and they're trading barbs like playing cards, flipping aces so fast it's all a blur, and then sometimes they say nothing at all.

That's what she'd like to remember, if she let herself, somewhere in between not apologizing and trying to let go. She'd like to remember what it felt to be on top of the world, in those secret moments at the end of the day, when she smiled for every reason and none at all, when loving him didn't mean leaving him.

It's eight-thirty. She should go home—it's as dark out as it ever is, and the lights don't look the same.

But Donna watches them. Louis is scolding an associate in the breakroom and Donna has made her last copy for the day.

She watches the glow and rush of headlights, the steady glare of windows, spangled into a million squares. She watches the darkness that crowds around the light. Sometimes, she thinks, it's a city full of broken souls.

Donna reaches for her glass of scotch, but it isn't there.