Threads of Fate

Morning

Alora's POV



"Lora! Wake up, you're going to be late!" My mum's voice echoed throughout the house, jolting me out of my half-asleep state. But mornings and I? We're not exactly on speaking terms. Instead of obeying her command, I burrowed deeper into my blanket, clinging to the last remnants of warmth like my life depended on it.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow across my cluttered room. Clothes were strewn over the chair, my suitcase sat half-open on the floor, and a pile of books teetered precariously on my nightstand. Outside, the faint chirping of birds hinted at a beautiful day—too bad I wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.

Just as I was about to drift back into dreamland, the door flew open, and there she was—my mum, the human alarm clock. Before I could even protest, she yanked my blanket away, leaving me shivering and exposed to the cruel morning air.

"Lora, get up and go freshen up. It's almost 8 o'clock!" she barked, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face. "Okay, I'm up! Stop shouting in the early morning!" My voice was groggy and laced with irritation, but Mum wasn't having it.

"Why are you so grumpy in the morning?" she shot back, her tone sharp enough to cut through my sleepiness. "Where are your manners? I know you're not thrilled, but you're going to be late. Get yourself together and meet me for breakfast in 10 minutes."

Guilt hit me as soon as the words left my mouth. I peeked out from under the pillow, mumbling, "Sorry, Mum. Didn't sleep much last night." She gave me one of those looks—the kind that says I understand but don't let it happen again—before leaving me to wage war with my blankets.

After a five-minute internal battle with my warm, cozy bed, I finally managed to stumble into the bathroom. The cold tiles under my feet sent a shiver up my spine as I splashed water on my face. The shock helped wake me up a little, and I brushed my teeth before hopping into the shower. The hot water cascaded over me, giving me time to think about the upcoming five-day trip. Five days. Five. Whole. Days. Ugh.

After what felt like an eternity of mentally preparing myself, I finally got dressed in a blue pastel jumpsuit. My brunette wavy hair fell messily around my face, and I quickly applied some mascara and lip balm. I slipped on my black round glasses—because let's be real, without them, my vision is a blurry 360p mess. Contact lenses? No, thank you. Me and lenses are like shawarma and juice—just not a good mix. But of course, Mum had insisted I pack them, claiming they'd "help me out." Help me out with what? Catching a guy? Please. Melodramatic much?

"Lora, I asked you to get ready in 10 minutes, not 50! Hurry the hell up!" Mum's voice rang out again, pulling me out of my thoughts. I grabbed my luggage and purse, rushing downstairs while panting like I'd just run a marathon.

Mum stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at me with a mix of bewilderment and disappointment. "What?" I asked, catching my breath. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Who runs a marathon for breakfast while carrying luggage like shopping bags and panting like a dog being chased?" she said, shaking her head. "You're hopeless."

I gasped dramatically, clutching my chest. "How can you say that about your only daughter, Hopeless? Mum, I'm not hopeless—I'm just a gone case!" I laughed at my own joke, but Mum only shook her head, though I swear I saw the tiniest hint of a smile on her face.

She gestured for me to sit down at the dining table, where a plate of omelette, toast, and a glass of milk waited. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and I couldn't help but feel a little more human as I dug in.

By the time I finished, it was 9:10, which meant I had less than 30 minutes to get to the match-made agency. Match-made agency. It sounded more like a tournament than a dating service, and I couldn't help but laugh at the thought.

Mum reminded me to dress appropriately and not wander around like I was at home. She'd packed some dresses for me since we were going to a beach house. As I mimicked her tone, she pinched my ear and threatened, "Do you forget the taste of my slippers?"

I shuddered at the memory. Those slippers were terrifying. To avoid reliving those dreadful days, I promised to send her pictures of myself dressed up. Only then did she let go of my ear. I complained about the pain, but she threatened to beat me up again if I didn't hurry.

I bolted toward the entrance, waving goodbye and calling her "Godzilla" as I threw a flying kiss her way. I could hear her roaring from the house, "If you weren't running late, I'd make you relive your childhood!"

I laughed as I ran, knowing full well that Mum's threats were as much a part of my morning routine as my grumpiness. But hey, at least I was on my way—ready or not.