Amy
Thirty-six days.
The countdown felt louder now.
Not because the number was small.
Because every day seemed to disappear faster than the one before it.
Classes.
Work.
Messages.
Coffee.
Sleep.
Repeat.
The routine should have felt comforting.
Instead it felt like standing on a moving sidewalk.
Life carrying me forward whether I was ready or not.
Friday mornings were usually my favorite.
The end of the week.
The promise of a slower weekend.
The possibility of sleeping past seven.
Unfortunately, Friday had other plans.
"Amy."
I looked up.
Grace stood beside my desk.
Folder in hand.
Expression entirely too innocent.
Dangerous combination.
"Conference Room Four."
My stomach dropped.
"Why?"
"Presentation."
"No."
"Excellent argument."
"I worked very hard on it."
