Eloise
The night before the launch, I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window in my small apartment, legs curled under me, nursing a mug of chamomile tea that had long since gone cold. The quiet sound of the city below did little to ease my nerves. My dress form stood in the corner, clothed in one of my favorites, textured linen stitched with raw seams, the lines purposeful, almost confessional. It was the kind of piece you could only make after you’ve fallen apart a few times and stitched yourself back together.
Max was asleep in the next room, finally, after asking one too many questions about his father again. I’d deflected with vague answers, promises I didn’t know if I could keep, Maybe soon. We’ll see. Let’s talk about it later, honey. But later always felt like a threat.
Tomorrow was
