I didn’t answer. She didn’t make me.
We finished the review anyway. She thanked me like I’d saved her life. I hated that she might be right.
Frankie next. A voice note from her came in as I was exporting files.
“Okay, hear me out—what if the cover is like, a funeral but make it disco? Like grief but with glitter. You know?”
I stared at the waveform and felt something almost like affection tug at the corner of my exhaustion. Frankie was crazy in the best way.
I sent her three reference images and a note that said:Yes. Funeral disco. I’m on it.
Then René’s email popped up.
Bring those ten images. Not “pretty.” Not “correct.” Ten that cost you.
And tomorrow: private viewing. 19:00. Dress accordingly.
Dressaccordingly.
I didn’t know what that meant coming from him, and that terrified me more than if he’d yelled.
My phone buzzed again—Dominic.
A text this time.
Dominic:
Free tonight? I can make time. Actual time. Not “walking to court” time.
My chest tightened so hard I had to sit down.
Actual time.
The thing I never gave him.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, instincts flaring:say yes, say yes, fix it, be good.
Then my calendar flickered in my mind like a warning light. Mischa’s project. René’s ten. Tomorrow’s viewing. Noor. Frankie. The Daily. The world.
The day.
My brain reached for its favorite solution: postpone. Delay. Tomorrow.
I stared at Dominic’s name until my eyes burned.
Then, before I could be a coward, I typed:
Me:
I can do ten minutes. Real ten minutes. After dinner. I want to hear your voice.
I hit send before I could rethink, replan, or reframe.
My heart kicked hard—panic and relief tangled together.
A beat later, my phone buzzed.
Dominic:
