[Maddie’s POV]

Sunday morning announces itself with my phone buzzing like an angry hornet. I squint at the screen through one eye, the other firmly refusing to acknowledge consciousness.

It’s a text from Victoria: ‘Hey Maddie! My offer still stands. I’d love to chat about managing competitive pressure. Coffee sometime?’

I stare at it for a solid minute before Emily stirs beside me. My ankle is still wrapped from yesterday’s disaster, the ice pack long since melted into a sad puddle of condensation on my nightstand.

The universe’s way of reminding me I’m a walking catastrophe.

Emily sits up, and her face does this whole transformation thing—like someone just told her Christmas came early and brought puppies. “Morning,” she says, grinning in a way that should probably be illegal before coffee. “Happy three-month anniversary.”

Oh. Oh no. My brain does the mental equivalent of frantically shuffling through a filing cabinet labeled Important Dates I Definitely Remembered.

It comes up empty, because apparently I’m not just a walking catastrophe, I’m also a terrible girlfriend.

“Right,” I say, plastering on a smile that hopefully doesn’t scream I completely forgot. “Happy anniversary.”

Emily bounces—actually bounces—out of bed. “I have the whole day planned. Brunch at that place downtown with the fancy French toast, then the art museum, and dinner reservations at seven. How’s your ankle? Do you think you’d be able to?”

My phone buzzes again. Mom this time: ‘How’s your ankle, sweetheart? Hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard.’

For a moment I think that Emily did text her, but maybe it’s just my luck—stupid coincidences.

“That sounds great. And yeah, ankle’s good. We can go,” I tell Emily, typing a quick response about how I’m fine, doing everything to keep my injury from flaring up.

Emily’s already digging through her closet, pulling out outfits with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Olympic medal ceremonies.

At brunch, Emily orders mimosas and talks excitedly about the museum’s new exhibit.

“They’ve restored some of Van Gogh’s older paintings and the copies are going to be there. You loved Van Gogh, yeah?” I nod absentmindedly. My phone vibrates three times during her description of Impressionist paintings.

Text from Dad: ‘article about training methodologies.’ Another from Mom, asking if I’ve thought about what we discussed last time we talked. A follow-up from Victoria.

“Sorry,” I mutter, checking the messages. Emily’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

“It’s fine,” she says, but the mimosa suddenly looks very interesting to her. I put my phone face-down on the table, screen still glowing with notifications.

The art museum should be romantic. Emily holds my hand as we wander through galleries, pointing out paintings she likes.

I nod and make appropriate sounds, but my phone is a live grenade in my pocket. It buzzes against my hip every five minutes.

“Do you need to get that?” Emily asks after the seventh buzz. Her voice is carefully neutral, which is somehow worse than if she’d just gotten mad.

“No, it’s fine. Just ads, probably.” I pull out my phone to silence it, but Dad’s sent another article and Mom’s asking again about how I’m eating. I fire off quick responses.

Emily’s hand slips out of mine. She studies a painting that’s mostly blue splotches, her arms crossed. “We can take a break if you need to call them back.”

“I don’t need to call them back. I’m here with you.” But even as I say it, my thumb hovers over my messages.

Victoria’s text sits unanswered: ‘I have some thoughts on working through mental blocks. Your dad mentioned you might benefit from a different perspective.’

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