Monday morning didn’t feel like a fresh start. It felt like a hangover from a night I wasn’t allowed to finish. I woke up before the sun, and stared at the ceiling for two hours. My lips felt heavy, branded by that moment on the hood of the car. My head was a mess of “what ifs” and the echo of her “I’m sorry.” By the time I walked into the back entrance of Stella Cucina, I was operating on pure, mechanical instinct. The restaurant was eerily quiet compared to the weekend’s war zone. The Monday lunch shift was the Spring Break Graveyard. I knew it would be revived again next month when the local high schools started having their proms, but right now, I didn’t really care. I clocked in and looked at the “who’s who” on the wall next to the computer, my eyes scanning for the one name I alr

