DEMETRIA
July. My month.
The air was heavy with the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes the city feel alive, buzzing. Los Angeles in July has its own rhythm, sunlight spilling like honey across palm-lined streets, the hum of car engines in traffic, and the faint sweetness of summer jasmine carried on the breeze. It was the kind of morning that begged you to slow down, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I stepped out of my apartment, heels clicking against the pavement, a soft summer dress hugging my body, the fabric light enough to fight the heat. My sunglasses shielded my eyes, but not the small smile tugging at my lips. My birthday was in a few days, and though I hadn’t planned anything extravagant, something about this year felt different.
Work was waiting. The bakery always was.
