Monday crept in slowly, like a soft ache.
Dianne woke with the sunlight bleeding through her curtains, her mind replaying flashes from Roy’s birthday—the almost kiss, the electricity, the tension she could still feel lingering on her skin.
She groaned and buried her face in her pillow.
“Get a grip, Dianne,” she whispered.
“It was just a moment. Stop overthinking.”
But her heart refused to listen.
She stood, stretched, and walked to the mirror. The woman staring back looked conflicted—eyes tired but bright, lips pressed tight as though trying to hold back the truth.
Dianne stood in front of her mirror, smoothing down the soft cream blouse she chose — elegant, subtle, yet somehow… extra. She added small pearl earrings, glossed her lips with care, and let her hair fall in loose waves.
