Work has always been my orbit. The bonuses, the promotions, the praise from someone who won’t remember me in five years. This is what I wanted. Isn’t it?

No Europe. No honeymoon. Just one too-long relationship, now over, and three bridesmaid dresses I left at the cleaners.

I debate leaving the house on a Friday night. I could go to a bar. Text that one friend who’s always out. By the time I’ve tried on every top, it’s already too late. I’m back under the covers.

Once, I almost left. There was a job in Seattle. A man who made breakfast. But I stayed for a project I can’t even recall anymore. The timing will always be off.

It’s not love. But it calls. It needs me. It shines. That has to mean something. Even if it won’t take me to Paris.

Just make it to tomorrow.

And maybe the next day.

And the day after that.

Until I can’t.