[Hazel]
I sat cross-legged on my bed, the soft cotton sheets bunched beneath me, my fingers nervously picking at the hem of my old pajama pants. In front of me, two sky-blue sticky notes clung to the baby-pink fabric like tiny execution orders waiting to be read out loud. They looked harmless—cute, even—but to me, they were merciless. Unforgiving. Like they had dragged my dignity into the courtroom and put it on trial for failure.
The first one read:
“Work as a waitress till I get a new job.”
The second, even worse:
“Beg Elijah to take me back as his secretary.”
I stared at them like they might blink first.
Neither option promised pride. One was exhausting; the other humiliating. And both meant I had to swallow the last fragments of my ego just to keep my life afloat.
“Okay, Hazel,
