Undone, Part II

She doesn't think of him until she is halfway through dressing, and then it arrives anyway—a snag on a button, a name catching in daylight. It is almost surprising how physical it is, how much it sits in her chest instead of her mind.

She gathers what she abandoned the night before: coat, scarf, a bracelet left on the shelf like a dare. When she lifts the bracelet it catches the light; she hesitates, then fastens it. The cool metal is an agreement she doesn’t say aloud.

Outside, the air is sharper than she expected. She takes the long route on purpose, letting the city assemble itself in ordinary pieces—brakes, a distant siren, a child complaining about shoes in a voice too sweet to be truly annoyed. She tells herself again that she isn’t thinking of him, and the sentence becomes a rhythm her body can walk to.

By the time she reaches the studio building, she knows why she came before she has the words. The elevator smells faintly of paint and someone else’s perfume. The numbers rise; her pulse keeps pace without asking permission.

At the door she pauses with her hand on the handle, feeling cheap metal warming under her palm. It is not too late to turn back; it is never too late until it suddenly is. The day waits. She goes to meet it.