The drive to work passes in fragments. Red lights. Green lights. My face-down phone vibrates on the seat, and I slowly pick it up.
Red: I expect full compliance in our session today, Bluebird. Don't waste your opportunity to find clarity with your parents.
My grin hurts my cheeks. My fingers shake so badly that I have to fix several typing mistakes.
Me: I can't wait for you to get into my head, Dr. Mercer.
The car pulls up to the curb, and I quickly go into the building. By the time I get to my desk, I'm practically floating.
Emails blur. Numbers refuse to stick. I open a document, stare at it, then minimize it again when the words won't arrange themselves. Every task I'm supposed to do is distant, like it belongs to a version of me that clocked out sometime last night.
Five o'clock pulses at the back of my mind like a countdown, going way too slow. I try to concentrate again, but nothing works.
I open my drawer for no reason and freeze.
The blue and red woven silk I bought weeks ago stares at me. I pick it up, and the smooth and cool fabric slides through my fingers.
I told myself it was just something to keep my hands busy, something grounding. That was another lie that worked a little too well. Now, I know the real reason I bought it.
I start cutting and stitching. The needle moves in and out with practiced ease, the rhythm calming and obsessive all at once.
Every pass grows more loaded. Blue crossing red. Red crossing blue. Control and devotion tangled so tightly, there's no separating them anymore.
This isn't just a tie. It's everything I can't say out loud. I imagine it around his neck and the way my colors will sit against his throat.
He'll have to carry me with him into every room.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the office air-conditioning.
"Blue?"
I flinch. The needle nicks my finger, and I look up.
My mother stands a few feet away, her brows drawn together as she studies me.
I hadn't heard her approach. "Sorry," I say quickly, sucking the drop of blood away, then add, "I didn't see you there."
She doesn't look convinced. Her gaze drifts to my hands, the fabric pooled there like evidence. "You seem…distracted today."
"I'm fine," I say, too easily. "Just busy."
Her eyes flick to my face, then back again, searching. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"
"I stayed up late," I reply, already turning back to my work, forgetting I lied to her that I overslept, and add, "Lost track of time."
She lingers, clearly wanting to say more, but she pauses. Maybe it's the energy humming off me. Maybe it's the smile I can't quite suppress. I'm glowing, and I know it, and she doesn't understand why, but I'm not telling her.
She finally caves. "I have a meeting. I'll see you later."
"At five," I remind her, not looking up and returning my focus to the tie.
"Yes," she agrees, and I can feel her leave.
The second she's gone, I exhale. Each stitch tightens the anticipation coiled inside me. I pour meaning into every detail, every decision. The width. The finish. The way the colors meetand part and meet again. It's meticulous. Reverent. Like I'm building something sacred out of silk and patience.
My phone vibrates again.
Red: I need you to take care of yourself, Bluebird. Have you eaten today?
