The museum gala became a weather system in my head the second he texted me about it. All day, the thought hovered over my shoulder like a nosy cloud: Friday, seven, dress you forget you’re wearing. The words made warmth slide down my spine and nerves spark in my stomach at the same time. I’d gone to museum nights before—fundraisers where donors pretended their drinks were philanthropy and artists pretended to enjoy being stared at—but I had never gone as someone’s risk. Or someone’s anchor.
The morning after his message, my apartment felt like a staging ground. I brewed coffee, stretched the way he’d taught me—hips complaining, ankles respectful—and then opened my notebook.
1. A gala is not a costume. It’s a room. I can belong to rooms.
2. I am not being managed. I am being trusted. I c
