Texting before bed

The bike chain clicks rhythmically as you coast up the long driveway. The estate's exterior lights flicker on automatically as HAVEN registers your approach—the familiar cascade of warm illumination that greets "Miss Chloe" every evening. Your face is still tight from dried tears, the mascara a lost cause, your bun hanging loose and tangled down your back.

"Welcome home, Miss Chloe," HAVEN intones as the front door swings open. "Current temperature: sixty-eight degrees. Wi-Fi and all systems nominal."

You park the bike in the mudroom, kick off the canvas sneakers, and head straight for Chloe's bathroom. The mirror shows you exactly what you expected: raccoon eyes, blotchy cheeks, the ghost of a smoky eye now smeared into grey-black smudges that extend halfway down your face. Your lip tint is gone entirely. You look like you've been crying, because you have.

First day tomorrow. Margot. Petal & Thread. Nine AM. You cannot show up looking like this.

You scrub your face with micellar water, then a gentle foaming cleanser. The black streaks dissolve into the white cotton pad, revealing raw pink skin underneath. You remove the breast forms carefully—they peel away with a faint adhesive release—and set them on the bathroom counter. You shower on autopilot, the hot water sluicing away the last traces of makeup and the lingering smell of woodsmoke from the patio fire pit.

Back in the bedroom, you towel off and pull on the sleep shorts and camisole that LUXE laid out this morning—pale pink silk, because of course. You peel back the duvet and climb in, pulling the covers to your chin.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand at 8:47pm.

Priya: Hey. You okay? Want to talk about what happened?

You stare at the message. The cursor blinks.

No. Not tonight. Not about this.

You type: Thanks for checking. I'm okay, just tired. Don't want to talk about it right now. See you soon though ❤

Priya's response comes in under a minute: Got it. Door's always open. Sleep well.

You set the phone face-down on the nightstand. The ceiling is dark except for the thin blue line of HAVEN's ambient nightlight along the baseboard. Your eyes sting. Your chest aches with that hollow bruised feeling that has nothing to do with physical injury.

Tomorrow. First day at Petal & Thread. Margot believes in you. You can do this.

You repeat it like a mantra, turning onto your side, pulling the silk pillowcase against your cheek. The fabric is cool and impossibly smooth. You focus on that sensation—the slide of silk, the weight of the duvet, the distant hum of the house systems—anything to crowd out the image of Janelle's face when she asked that question.

Not really a girl.

You press your face harder into the pillow.

I am. I am. I just need time.

Sleep comes slowly, in fits and starts, dragging you down through layers of half-formed thoughts about hangers and fabric swatches and Margot's calm grey-green eyes and the way she said of course I still want you when you told her. You hold onto that. Someone knows. Someone accepted you completely.

The last thing you register before unconsciousness takes you is HAVEN's soft chime: "Goodnight, Miss Chloe. Your morning LUXE session is scheduled for seven-fifteen. First day at work—would you like me to set an additional alarm?"

You mumble something affirmative into the pillow. HAVEN interprets this as consent.

You sleep.