A Day in the Life Of Amy

Amy drove home on autopilot, the shopping bag abandoned on the passenger seat. The image of Mark’s face—tight jaw, wounded eyes—looped in her head like a reel she couldn’t shut off. Every word he’d said rang sharp, slicing into the soft place she’d been living in with Fiona.

By the time she pulled into the condo garage, her chest felt like it was caving in.

Inside, Max padded up eagerly, tail wagging, but Amy could barely muster a smile. She curled into the couch, knees tucked tight against her chest, and let her phone buzz unanswered on the table. Fiona had texted, probably wanting to know how her day was, maybe even suggesting another shoot. Amy couldn’t bring herself to look.

The weight of it all pressed in: Rose’s voice at brunch, her mother’s half-scolding messages, the whispers she’d felt on the street. And now Mark—his words clung to her like smoke. *Maybe someday you’ll realize what you threw away.*

She tried to tell herself she’d chosen love, chosen truth. But the guilt gnawed at her. Was it selfish? Reckless? What if Fiona’s world wasn’t enough to steady her through the storm? What if everyone was right about her—that she was just drifting, jumping from thrill to thrill without ever holding on to something solid?

Max rested his head on her lap, eyes wide and steady, as if willing her not to crumble. Amy buried her face into his fur, her tears finally spilling.

For the first time since Fiona’s kiss, she felt small again—like the same uncertain girl who had woken up weeks ago craving *something different* without knowing what that meant.

Hours passed. The sky outside dimmed into violet. Amy sat in the quiet, her phone still buzzing from time to time, each vibration a reminder she couldn’t hide forever.

When the knock finally came at the door, it was soft, almost tentative. Amy’s heart leapt.

She didn’t need to ask who it was.