I own exactly one dress that makes me feel like I have my life together.
Tonight, it's hanging on my bedroom door, mocking me gently.
Because this isn't a date. Not officially. Evan just said, "Let's grab dinner—something not in a takeout box for once." Which, yes, is ambiguous. But then he texted "No pressure, wear whatever you want :)", and I spiraled.
So here I am. In The Dress. It's deep green, knee-length, soft fabric that makes me look like I tried, but not too hard. Perfect for a date that isn't.
Except—thirty minutes before I'm supposed to meet Evan, I get a text.
> Evan: Hey. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner?
I stare at my phone, blinking.
No explanation. No follow-up.
Just a polite brush-off that feels like getting ghosted with manners.
My first instinct is: okay, cool, no big deal. People cancel all the time. Schedules happen. Emergency laundry probably happened. Maybe his ex showed up with a ferret and a restraining order. Anything is possible.
My second instinct is to change into pajamas and eat cereal dramatically while listening to sad indie music.
Which is exactly what I do.
Fifteen minutes into a bowl of aggressively soggy Cinnamon Toast Crunch, there's a knock at my door.
I freeze.
Another knock.
Please let it be a neighbor returning my lost sock and not, say, a murderer or a Jehovah's Witness with bad timing.
I open the door.
It's Evan.
Holding a brown paper bag and looking very apologetic.
"I'm not dead," he says quickly. "Which, based on your face, you were at least slightly hoping for."
"I wasn't hoping," I reply, arms crossed. "Just... lightly grieving."
He holds up the bag. "Peace offering. Pad Thai and that weird mango drink you like."
I narrow my eyes. "Explain."
"My sister called," he says. "Mini-crisis. She just moved here last week, and her new roommate accidentally locked her out during an anxiety episode. I had to help."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
That's… extremely valid.
Now I feel like a cereal-goblin.
I sigh and step aside. "Come in. But I get all the spring rolls as compensation."
"Deal."
We sit on the couch, sharing food from the bag and watching the last ten minutes of a baking show I had playing.
Eventually, I ask, "So… sister? Tell me more."
He tells me about her. Charlotte. Twenty-one. Art student. Loves chaos and glitter. Hates pickles and emotional vulnerability.
"She sounds like a menace," I say fondly.
"She is. But she's my menace."
I smile. And suddenly, I'm glad dinner got postponed. Because this version of the evening—soft light, shared food, quiet honesty—feels more real than anything a fancy restaurant could offer.
"Also," Evan says, glancing at me, "I was right. That dress is very you."
I blink. "You noticed?"
"I notice a lot of things."
And just like that, my heart decides it's going to betray me again.
---