6:15

Dinner at eight. The numbers hang in the air, weightless, unhurried.

Breah stands in the shower. Water streams down, warm and steady. The day is still hers, at least for now.

Her chest tightens, a flutter beneath her ribs. Her body knows something her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

She moves with purpose. Shampoo, quick. Conditioner—she skips it. The razor stays on the shelf. No need to hurry, but her hands act like there’s a race.

She turns off the water. Wraps the towel around herself.

6:23

The clock reminds her: time moves on, whether she’s ready or not.

One hour, thirty-seven minutes until she leaves. More than enough. Forty minutes to get ready. Fifty-seven to spare. The numbers line up, logical, generous.

Still, her heart sets its own pace.

She opens her closet. Scans the hangers.

She hesitates—a hand hovering over the black dress, then the blue shirt. Maybe this time, she lets herself choose comfort over perfection.

Her hands move fast, pulling things out. Holding them up. Rejecting them.

Jeans tossed on the chair. Gray sweater, soft from last week’s wash. They’ll do. She decides, just this once, to trust her first instinct.

She dresses. Looks in the mirror. Reflection: steady, enough.

6:31

She sits at the vanity, brushes foundation over her skin. Blush next. Each motion practiced, almost automatic. Her breath stays high in her chest, shallow, as if she might float off if she’s not careful.

Each second stretches, then snaps back. Minutes slip by, already spoken for.

The dinner is casual—old friends, no reservations, just laughter promised six blocks from here. No event after. The evening unfolds ahead of her, open and gentle. There is no reason to rush.

But her body lags behind the facts, running on its own invisible clock.

6:48

Breah sits on the edge of her bed, fully dressed. Makeup done. Bag packed.

She looks at the clock.

One hour and twelve minutes until dinner started.

The tightness in her chest remains. Early, but not at ease. Empty minutes stretch before her, a space she’s not sure how to fill. Time, usually precious, now feels precarious.

She stands. Walks to the kitchen. Makes tea she doesn’t want.

She waits for the kettle. Watches steam begin to rise. Her pulse drums in her throat, steady and loud.

A thought surfaces, quiet and insistent: What is she running from?

The question arrived quietly.

It isn’t dinner. Not time. It’s something deeper—her body’s old reflex, bracing before the day has even asked anything of her.

The kettle clicks off. She pours the water. Watches the tea steep.

She breathes in the steam. Lets her breath rise and fall, deeper now. For a moment, she meets herself where she is.

6:59

Breah sits on her couch, mug warm in her hands.

A hum of urgency still lingers, but now she can see it—distinct from the numbers, apart from the evening waiting for her.

Her nervous system compresses time, turning ordinary moments sharp and urgent. She notices how readiness arrives long before it’s called for.

Seven-thirty will come. She’ll walk six blocks. Arrive exactly when intended.

But right now, at seven o’clock, with an entire hour ahead of her, she lets herself sit to acknowledge how she feels.

The artwork on her TV rotates in its steady rhythm. One picture after the other.

Her body still wants to rush ahead. But she lingers now, in the space between urgency and reality, present with herself and the hour she’s been given.

That gap—she’s never noticed it before.