LILY
Tuesday morning feels sharper.
Not in a painful way, exactly—more like clarity. Like the kind of sharp that comes from waking up after a dream you can't quite remember but still feel in your chest. The kind of sharp that cuts through the fog you've been carrying without asking permission.
The kind that feels dangerously close to hope.
I don't usually look forward to mornings. But today, I find myself leaving five minutes earlier than usual. Coffee in hand, hair pulled back, phone buzzing with notifications I don't bother checking.
Because the only thing I want to see…
Is already waiting for me.
Daniel's at his desk when I walk in. Focused. Calm. Too calm. Like he's trying very hard to seem like nothing matters. Like he didn't see my note yesterday. Like he didn't reply. Like we didn't spend a whole afternoon trading pieces of ourselves in small, inked clues passed between desks.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
