Marcel

I wake up to the shrill blare of my alarm, the sound grating enough to make me want to throw the damn thing across the room.

My hand is stuck in midair, unable to decide whether to rip the plug from the wall or press snooze.

Eventually, I settle on silence, pressing the button and collapsing back onto my pillow.

The room is now too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every thought in my head sound twice as loud.

I should grab my phone and check emails, scroll through the calendar, and convince myself that the day is worth getting out of bed for. But my hand remains frozen, hovering in midair before returning to my side.

I don’t want to look at my phone because I know what’s waiting: a day that’s already been ruined before it even started.

I drag myself upright, my legs swinging over the side of the bed, feet touching the cold floor. It jolts me enough to keep me from lying back down, but not enough to make me feel like moving.

I grab my laptop from the nightstand and flip it open.

The data is still there in the same folder I put it in after retrieving from the system.

Lori was right, it was somehow tempered with but nothing I couldn't fix in my angry state.

Now it's slide after slide of perfectly curated content, flawless design, bulletproof data. It’s exactly what it needs to be—on paper. But as I scroll through it, I feel that gnawing sensation in my chest again.

Something’s missing.

It doesn’t take long to figure out what. Or who, even if I tried to ignore it.

I close the laptop with more force than necessary, my jaw tightening. It’s not that the files are bad; They’re polished and professional, and no one in their right mind could criticize them because I fixed every bit of it.

But there’s no spark. No fire.

That’s what Lori brings—the ability to take something ordinary and make it extraordinary. She makes everything feel alive.

And now? It feels dead.

My chest tightens, a sharp pang of frustration shooting through me.

I hate that I miss her. I hate that I’m even thinking about her right now, after the way last night went.

It was not the kind of argument you forget about after a night of sleep. It was ugly, raw, the kind of fight where words are thrown like weapons, designed to hurt.

And we hurt, alright.

I rub my temples, trying to push the memory away, but it lingers, looping in my head like a bad song.

I know I hurt her. I saw it in her eyes before she stormed out.

But she hurt me too.

Still, there’s no denying the truth of it: without her, this presentation feels... wrong. Like I’ve already failed before I’ve even stepped into the boardroom.

I stand up, pacing the room, trying to shake off the heavy feeling on my shoulders. The sunlight through the blinds feels harsh, too bright for how I’m feeling. I want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and ignore the world.

But I can’t.

I glance at my phone, the black screen daring me to pick it up.

I think about texting her and apologizing, or maybe just starting with something neutral. Something professional.

I got the files back. Are you coming in today?

But I know what her answer would be—silence. Or worse, something curt and cold that would only make the gap between us wider.

I let the phone fall back onto the nightstand and grab a cup of coffee instead, letting the bitter taste wake me up just enough to start moving.

God, I hate how much she’s gotten under my skin.

By the time I’m dressed and halfway through my second cup of coffee, I’m still no closer to feeling ready for today. The sadness looms over me like a storm cloud, and I know I have to face it, but every part of me wants to call in sick and let someone else deal with it.

But I won’t. I can’t. Because that’s not who I am.

Mom would be so proud of me right now.

I grab my bag and laptop, slipping into my heels with practiced ease. My reflection in the mirror looks put together, like I’ve got everything under control.

A lie, but it’s a convincing one.

The cold morning air bites at my skin, snapping me out of my haze when I step outside.

The city is more alive than I am. People rush past me, heads down, focused. I envy them, their ability to move forward without this weight on their shoulders.

But then I think of Lori again, of the way she always manages to move forward no matter what. I think about her fire, her determination, the way she refuses to let anyone—including me—get in her way.

And I realize something: maybe I’m not just mad at her. Maybe I’m mad at myself, too.

Because as much as I want to blame her for the fight, for the way things fell apart, I know I played a part in it too. And I hate to admit it but I don’t want this to be the end of us—professionally or otherwise.

I don’t know what today’s going to bring. But I do know one thing: I can’t keep running from this. From her.

Whatever happened, but somewhere along the way, Lori became more than just an annoying coworker.

She became something I never meant for her to be--someone I trusted, someone I needed. I made it so easy to push her away. Like it didn't matter, like she didn't matter.

I'm not going to lie to myself anymore. The truth is right there, staring me in the face, and I can't ignore it: I need Lori.

I want to pretend I don't feel this way. I want to bury it, push it aside like I've done with everything else in my life that's made me vulnerable.

But I can't. Not anymore. Not now that I'm standing in the middle of something I might lose forever.

I need to show her that I care.

But how do I do that? How do I make her understand that I've been terrified of letting myself feel, that I've been too busy trying to maintain control to realize how much I've pushed her away?

How do I make her see that this isn't just about the project, that I can't do it without her by my side?

I start to type a message, my fingers trembling as I try to put my thoughts into words. But I delete it just as quickly, frustration bubbling up.

A text won't fix this.

I need to see her.

I need to make things right.

Let me be the fool for her.