It happens on a Tuesday.
Nothing dramatic about Tuesdays. No warnings. No thunder.
Just a notification lighting up my screen while I’m icing éclairs in the shop, my apron dusted with powdered sugar, my hands finally steady again.
Celeste Moreau followed you.
Celeste Moreau sent you a message.
I stare at it longer than I should.
I already blocked her number. I was careful. Intentional. Proud of myself for it, even.
Apparently, that only slowed her down.
I don’t open the message right away. I finish piping the last swirl of cream. I wipe my hands. I smile at one of my staff when she asks if I’m okay.
“Just tired,” I say again. It’s becoming my favorite lie.
When I finally sit in the back and open the message, my chest tightens before my eyes even finish reading.
“I don’t want prob
