Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 1

Mornings always came too fast.

Even when I barely slept, which was often, they still arrived like an unwelcome guest. Loud, cold, and far too bright.

I woke to the soft sound of rain tapping against the window, the kind that blurred the sky into watercolor.

The world outside looked like it was holding its breath.

I did not blame it. Some mornings felt like that.

I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths until my chest loosened. Then I reached for my phone. 6:14 a.m. Earlier than necessary, but I was awake now. Staying in bed only made my thoughts louder.

I pushed myself up and went straight to the bathroom.

My routine mattered. It grounded me. It gave my mornings a sense of order my mind sometimes lacked.

I washed my face carefully, cool water first, then cleanser, massaging it in slow circles the way I had taught myself to do.

I liked things done properly. Thoroughly.

I patted my skin dry with a clean towel and moved through the rest of it automatically.

Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. Each step deliberate. Controlled.

In the mirror, my face looked calm. Put together. That was the goal.

I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, then hesitated briefly before opening my closet. Choosing clothes was easier when I did not think too much. I slipped into jeans that sat comfortably on my hips and a soft white top, clean and simple. Everything neutral. Everything intentional.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and drank it slowly. The fridge hummed quietly behind me. I did not open it. I told myself I would eat later. I always told myself that.

Back in my room, I did my makeup at my vanity. This was my favorite part.

Light foundation, blended carefully. Concealer where I needed it. A touch of blush, subtle and clean. Mascara, just enough to make my eyes look awake. Lip balm, then a soft pink gloss. Nothing dramatic. Nothing messy. I liked looking effortless, even when effort had gone into it.

When I was done, I studied myself in the mirror.

Blue eyes. Tired, but clear. Faint shadows beneath them that no amount of concealer ever fully erased. My hair fell in loose waves that refused to behave, but I let them be. They were mine. That mattered.

The apron came last.

It always felt like a costume. A version of me that smiled more, spoke less, and remembered the names of people who never remembered mine. I tied it around my waist, smoothing it flat, and reminded myself that fashion would have to wait.

Someday.

But not today.

The café was only a few blocks from my house. I liked walking there in the rain. It made the world quieter. The air smelled clean, almost sharp, and the streets were still half asleep. I passed shuttered bookstores and puddle-pocked sidewalks, pulling my jacket closer around me.

Halfway there, the familiar ache stirred in my shoulder.

Old pain. Faint and ghostlike.

I slowed my pace until it faded again. I did not like thinking about it. About hospitals. About recovery that had never quite finished. It was just part of me now, like everything else that lingered longer than it should have.

By the time I reached the café, it was already alive with morning tension. Cups clinked. Machines hissed. Voices overlapped. Richard, the morning manager, leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, watching me with a knowing smirk.

"Well," he said, dragging the word out, "look who finally made it."

"Good morning, Richard," I replied, tightening my apron straps.

"Sleep well, Princess?" he asked. "Or were you up planning your future fashion empire again?"

I kept my expression neutral. Everyone knew I wanted to work in fashion. Richard liked pretending he was doing me a favor by reminding me where I still was.

"Focus on the espresso today," he added lightly. "We need coffee, not ambition."

I nodded once and moved past him. I always let it go. I had learned which battles were worth my energy.

The café settled into its rhythm quickly. Grind. Steam. Pour. Press. Repeat. I liked how predictable it was. How everything had a place. How my hands knew what to do even when my mind wandered.

A couple came in first, followed by a woman with a laptop and sharp nails. Then three students who all ordered the same overpriced chai latte. I moved fast, efficient, precise. My body felt lighter when I stayed busy.

I was halfway through preparing a cappuccino for a table near the window when the bell above the door chimed again.

I did not look up.

I focused on the milk, stretching it into silk. On the warmth in my palms. On the careful pour. I wiped the edge of the cup clean and set it on a tray beside a cranberry scone, balancing everything with ease.

I stepped out from behind the counter.

And ran straight into someone.

My shoulder collided with something solid. A body. The tray tipped, and the cappuccino spilled forward, still hot, soaking into pale cream silk.

Time froze.

"Oh my God," I gasped, stumbling back. "I am so sorry. I did not see you."

My hands shook as I grabbed napkins, too many of them, pressing them uselessly against the stain. "I should have looked. I am really sorry."

She did not move at first. She looked down at the spill, then slowly lifted her gaze to mine.

And I forgot how to speak.

Because she was beautiful.

Not the kind of beautiful that smiled or sparkled. The kind that made you forget how to blink. Her blonde hair fell in smooth, effortless waves, and her eyes were the palest blue I had ever seen. Cold. Clear. Like winter sky.

She was not angry.

Instead, she raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"Next time," she said calmly, "make sure you know where you are going, darling."

Her voice was low and measured. Controlled. She slipped her blazer on with practiced ease, hiding the stain as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

"I understand," I said quickly. "I am really sorry."

Her gaze lingered on me for a second longer, assessing, unreadable. Then she turned toward the counter.

Thank God Sarah was at the register. I would not have survived looking at her again.

Richard appeared beside me, amused. "Looks like Princess Coffee finally met her match."

I ignored him, focusing on my hands, on the cups, on the steady hiss of the espresso machine.

After work, the quiet of home welcomed me like a deep breath. I washed my hands carefully, changed into clean clothes, and tied on an old apron. Dinner was simple. Pasta with garlic, olive oil, and cherry tomatoes.

I cooked slowly. Methodically. I liked knowing exactly what went into my food. I ate a small portion, chewing carefully, telling myself it was enough. The familiar guilt followed anyway, quiet but persistent.

I cleaned the kitchen until every surface shone.

The next morning arrived clear and bright.

I moved through my routine again, unhurried. Quick shower. Skincare. Makeup. Control. The outfit I picked out was simple. Black dress pants and a white sweater. I slipped into my Dior heels, my mother's gift for my twentieth birthday, and packed my bag with notebooks, pens, and books.

Dad had already left for the hospital. A note waited on the counter.

Good luck today. Eggs in the fridge. Love you.

I folded it carefully and left it where it was.

Outside, the air was crisp, still carrying the faint trace of last night's rain. The pavement gleamed under the pale morning light, and fallen leaves stuck stubbornly to the sidewalk. Jade and Marcus were already waiting at the corner, coffee cups in hand, steam curling upward like breath.

Jade's eyes swept over me immediately, sharp and familiar.

"You look suspiciously put together," she said. "Like you woke up early on purpose."

"I did wake up early," I replied.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "That's worse."

Jade laughed and linked her arm through mine as we started walking. "Okay, no. Something happened. You don't do soft makeup and perfect waves for no reason."

"It's just habit," I said, though even to my own ears it sounded thin.

"Sure," Marcus said. "And I just happened to contour today."

Jade squeezed my arm gently. "Work morning?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

"Still dealing with Espresso Tyrant?" Marcus asked.

I nodded. "He's in a generous mood yesterday. Only implied I'm wasting my life once."

Jade grimaced. "I hate him."

"I know," I said softly. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

She glanced at me, her expression shifting just slightly. "You shouldn't have to be."

We walked the rest of the way in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from years of friendship.

The campus slowly came into view, sprawling and familiar.

Students clustered near the entrance, laughing, arguing, scrolling on their phones.

Someone played music softly from a speaker.

The smell of coffee and wet stone lingered in the air.

University always felt like a world halfway between chaos and control.

Inside, the lecture building buzzed with movement. Shoes echoed against the floors. Voices layered over one another. Lockers slammed. A group of girls laughed too loudly near the stairs, their perfume trailing behind them. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, grounding myself in the weight of it.

The lecture hall itself was already filling up.

Rows of seats curved downward toward the podium, bathed in warm overhead light. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching dust in the air. The low hum of conversation wrapped around us as we slid into our usual seats.

Jade leaned closer. "So," she murmured, "are we talking normal tired or mysterious tired?"

"Mysterious," Marcus supplied helpfully.

I exhaled through my nose. "Just... work was weird."

"Weird how?" Jade pressed.

I hesitated. "I spilled coffee on someone."

Marcus winced. "Please tell me not a customer who screams."

"No," I said. "She didn't scream."

Jade's eyes sharpened. "That's worse."

"She just... looked at me," I finished, unsure why my chest tightened at the memory.

Marcus grinned. "Oh. One of those."

Jade studied me carefully but didn't push. "Okay. Well, whoever she was, I hope she recovers from the trauma."

I smiled faintly and looked down at my phone, scrolling without really seeing anything. My appetite felt distant, like a concept rather than a sensation. I sipped water instead, focusing on the cold, the clarity of it.

Then Jade stiffened beside me.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

"What?" I asked, still distracted.

Marcus leaned forward slowly, eyes fixed on the front of the room. "Okay. I know I'm gay," he said under his breath, "but that woman could ruin my life."

Confused, I looked up.

The room seemed to quiet, not completely, but enough that I noticed the shift. Heads turned. Conversations dulled. A presence had entered the space.

And there she was.

Walking down the aisle with effortless confidence. Tailored blazer. Calm posture. That same blonde hair, that same sharp elegance. She looked exactly as she had in the café, only now she belonged here. Like the room had been waiting for her.

My stomach dropped.

It was her.