Emma
I’m late.
Not technically. Not clock-on-the-dot late. Just… emotionally late. Spiritually late. Existentially late. The kind of late where your body is on time but your soul is lagging ten feet behind you, clinging to a wall, refusing to participate.
My stomach has been twisting itself into balloon animals since 7 a.m.
I told Tessa I was “totally fine.”
She looked at me for three seconds and said, “You’re lying,” and then handed me a granola bar like I was on the brink of fainting.
Rude.
Correct, but rude.
I’ve spent the entire morning trying not to think about yesterday. Failing miserably.
Because the moment he said Miss Hart—so perfectly polite, so professionally distant—something in me cracked.
It was tiny. Invisible. But real.
And the worst part?
I’m not angry he said
