Charlie
The first thing I noticed was the light.
Warm. Soft. The kind of dreamy, golden glow that belongs in a cottagecore Pinterest board or a shampoo commercial where impossibly happy people with perfect hair frolic through meadows while discussing the benefits of keratin protein. It streamed through gauzy white curtains like the universe had hired a professional cinematographer and decided my Tuesday morning deserved the full romantic movie treatment.
The second thing I noticed?
I wasn't in my room.
My room had blackout curtains (because I'm not a morning person), a ceiling that leaked when it rained hard, and the lingering scent of yesterday's takeout. This place had sheets that were too soft—like, illegally soft, the kind of thread count that probably cost more than my rent—a cei
