Lila woke up to the fading warmth of late afternoon sun slipping through her curtains, bright enough to sting her eyes but soft enough to remind her she'd overslept. She blinked slowly, hazy from the unexpectedly deep nap and the pleasant, weightless float that came after sleeping a little too hard. Three hours. She really had crashed.
Maybe it was nerves.
Maybe it was excitement.
Or maybe it was the faint exhaustion humming through her bones—the one she pretended not to notice whenever she could help it.
Regardless, she had a date tomorrow
A real date.
With Asher.
And if that didn't require a full pre-date ritual, nothing did.
She stretched, rolled out of bed, and padded to the mirror. Her hair was slightly messy from the pillow, and there was a faint crease on her cheek from the way she'd slept. Cute, but not date-night cute.
"Alright," she sighed softly. "Transformation time."
She showered first—hot water, lavender soap, steam curling around her like something gentle and reassuring. She took her time exfoliating, shaving, conditioning her hair until it felt like silk under her fingers. A tiny part of her whispered that it was silly to fuss, that he wasn't the type to care too much about appearances.
But she cared.
Because she wanted the date to feel special.
After the shower she moisturized, spritzed on a subtle body mist, and brushed through her hair until it fell in soft waves. She tidied the room, ate a small snack, and checked her phone compulsively.
Good, she had time.
Enough time to go find something to wear.
Lila grabbed her bag, slipped into sandals, and stepped outside. Florence in the late afternoon always felt like a painting—streets dipped in gold, the air warm but not heavy, the gentle hum of people returning home or stepping out for evening plans. She moved with purpose, humming under her breath as she visited the boutique a few blocks away.
She knew exactly what she wanted: a dress. Something beautiful but not desperate. Something simple but not plain. A dress that made her feel like the version of herself she wished she could hold onto forever.
The boutique was quiet, sunlight spilling in through wide windows and resting over racks of clothes like blessing hands. She browsed slowly—floral prints, crisp linens, bold reds, delicate blues—touching the fabric of each dress like she was evaluating them for sincerity.
Then she saw it.
A soft, twilight-colored dress tucked between brighter ones, almost shy in comparison. The fabric flowed beneath her fingers, lightweight and airy without being flimsy. It cinched gently at the waist, flattering but not demanding attention, and the neckline dipped just enough to be feminine without feeling performative. The color was somewhere between dusty lavender and muted periwinkle and it brought out the undertones of her skin and made her eyes appear subtly brighter.
She didn't need to try it on to know.
It was perfect.
Perfect because it felt like her.
Perfect because it made her chest flutter with a strange, optimistic ache.
She purchased it before she could talk herself into second-guessing and left the shop with the bag hugged close to her chest, like something precious.
Next stop: the salon.
Florence salons always felt a bit like entering a warm, slightly chaotic family gathering. Voices blending, dryers humming, someone laughing in the corner, someone else sighing dramatically about their split ends. She was welcomed with a smile and led to a seat, where she explained she needed a manicure and pedicure.
"Something soft?" the nail artist asked, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Or something bold?"
"Soft," Lila decided. "Something pretty. Something romantic."
The woman smiled like she knew exactly what that meant.
The warm water of the pedicure bowl, the gentle massage, the careful shaping of her nails—it all worked together to coax out the tension she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying since waking up. She watched pale pink polish settle smoothly over her fingernails and toenails, delicate and glossy. Clean. Fresh. Soft.
She felt lighter.
More confident.
More ready.
It was a small thing but the way it made her feel wasn't small at all.
After the salon, she walked home slowly, taking her time, enjoying the way her dress bag bumped lightly against her thigh. People moved around her, tourists looking lost, locals waving to one another, the smell of bread and roasted tomatoes drifting from a restaurant she'd promised herself she'd visit very soon.
By the time she reached her apartment, the sun was dipping lower, painting the buildings in shades of apricot and rose. She placed her dress on the bed, smoothing the fabric like she was tucking in a sleeping child, and then prepared the rest of her things for the next day. Makeup laid out. Shoes lined neatly. Bag cleaned out and repacked with essentials. Everything ready.
When she finally crawled into bed she felt both tired and invigorated. Excited. Nervous. Hopeful.
She had stopped expecting this kind of anticipation. Stopped thinking she could feel it again.
Asher had changed that without even trying.
But excitement often came with a shadow. A small, unwelcome reminder that life didn't pause just because she wanted it to.
It was an hour past midnight when she woke suddenly.
Her breath caught before her mind caught up. A sharp pressure pulsed behind her eyes—dull at first, then sharper, deeper. She touched her forehead instinctively, trying to blink the sensation away, but the room wavered slightly at the edges, like the world had forgotten how to stand still.
"No," she whispered into the dark. "Not now. Please not now."
She sat up too quickly. The motion made black spots gather across her vision.
Her pulse stuttered.
Her hands trembled.
A familiar weakness began seeping into her limbs, a sinking heaviness that always frightened her no matter how many times she experienced it.
She pressed her palms against the mattress, grounding herself, trying to breathe through it.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Steady.
But her body didn't listen.
A wave of dizziness washed over her—strong, cold, disorienting. She closed her eyes, but the darkness spun worse. Her stomach twisted. Her chest tightened.
Another symptom.
Another warning.
Her condition reminding her it hadn't gone anywhere.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, but her fingers slipped.
The device fell to the floor with a muted thud.
"Come on…" she whispered, voice trembling.
She tried again, but her hand wouldn't steady. A trembling breath escaped her as she leaned forward, forehead nearly touching her knees.
She didn't want to panic.
She couldn't panic.
She didn't want this to be the reason things went wrong.
Her vision blurred again. Something wet—tears she hadn't felt fall—slipped down her cheek. The buzzing in her ears grew louder, drowning the quiet night.
She swallowed hard, breath shallow, body swaying.
Then everything tilted—slow, then fast—and the world's edges folded inward like a collapsing page.
And with one final, desperate breath, Lila felt herself slipping.
The darkness took her before she could fight it.