I wake up to another episode. Since I've had use of reason, every time I get stressed out or feel a very intense emotion, I start to hear this nonstop "tick tock" in my head, sometimes soft, other times intense, but always relentless.

  I'm half asleep, but suddenly overwhelmed with this intense feeling of time slipping away, like a countdown that's running out. In bed, clenching the covers, I start spiraling about my death and the things I didn't do yet. I just have to take my medicine, and get some work done to distract myself until it fades away. I never set alarms anymore, this built-in clock wakes me up thirty seconds before the phone would dare. And Daniel hates the sound of intrusion.

  I'm halfway out of the covers, foot brushing the cold air of the morning, when I feel his hand grabbing my hip.

  "Where are you going?" He's buried in the crook of my pillow, brown curly hair in a bloom around his face, voice half-muffled, half-accusation.

  "Coffee," I lie.

  I hate to tell him about my episodes, but also, I avoid drinking coffee in the morning. My stomach is very sensitive, a fact he has known for three years and one month, since the night he told me I was beautiful, with my hands wrapped around a sweating bottle of beer, and I almost said ‘thank you' and instead said ‘I'll puke if I drink too much coffee.' He laughed so hard he choked and then he kissed me, and now we share a bed, two cats, a Netflix account, and the quiet knowledge of each other's sleep sounds.

  The green of his half opened eyes shine with the morning sun entering the window. He moves behind me. "Not yet," he mumbles.

  The sound vibrates against my collarbone, his lips brushing the little knot at the base of my neck, his hand slowly slides under the hem of my sleep shirt, reaching my breasts, softly touching them, palping for the nipple, then squeezing it a little.

  I consider, for one infinitesimal second, the option of rolling away, of ignoring the prodding nudge of his cock, but there's something easier about going along, and I find myself arching into his palm, letting him set the pace, the rhythm, the entire shape of my body's response.

  "Turn over," he breathes.

  And I do, this is the choreography we have perfected. I'm on my back, and he moves in between my knees, his mouth is kissing along my collarbone, his hand pushing up my shirt, and there is a tenderness to it, but also an impatience.

  He nudges my legs wider, cups my pussy and starts pressing my clit, circling, and circling, while softly biting my nipple. The warmth between my legs starts to grow slowly, and in no time I know I’m soaked. I moan softly.

  He hooks the elastic of my underwear with his thumb, moving the fabric out of the way and slides his fingers in, opening my lips.

  "You're so wet," he says, and there's a little smile in his voice, like an kind of thing. I cringe for a sec. But his fingers press inside me and I gasp, arching my back slightly. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation building within me.

  "Right there," I whisper in a moan.

  He takes it as encouragement, he slides my underwear down, just far enough. He tugs his own boxers, and he's inside me with a sigh, his head ducked against my shoulder, breath dampening the fabric at my neck.

  I let my mind go a little blank, let sensation accumulate in increments: the slow, careful rhythm, the friction, the way our hips meet, again and again. He grinds his hips, hands gripping my ass now, pulling me into him with every thrust. I'm getting to the edge.

  Daniel shudders, makes a soft grunt, the sudden slackening of his body, the collapse of his rhythm, I feel him come. He stays on top of me for a moment, panting, then rolls off. I lie there, frozen in frustrated anticipation, my pussy still humming with the heat.

  "That was nice," he murmurs, already reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He glances at me, distracted. "Shit, is that the time? I'm going to be late."

  He jumps out of bed, heading for the shower. I know the script. I could say nothing and let the moment pass, but the urge to say that there's a problem in our sex life has been growing on me.

  "Daniel," I say, not loud, not soft. "Lately I haven't been…" I search for the right word, not wanting to make it more dramatic than it is. "Finishing."

  He turns around. There's a furrow of confusion, then a flicker of defensiveness. "Really? I thought…" He trails off, the calculation visible in his eyes as he sifts through prior evidence, recalibrates his assumptions.

  "I mean, you're not doing anything wrong," I say quickly, he gets sensitive when I say he is doing something wrong, "It just… isn't happening. I think maybe I'm broken." I laugh, brittle.

  He relaxes his body right away and turns on the shower. Now he is talking louder over the sound of the water. "Maybe you're just stressed. You've been—" he makes a weird pause like he has to think about what's going on in my life. "You know. Work."

  I shrug. "Maybe."

  "Let's talk about it tonight, okay? I have to go to the bar to receive an early delivery. I'm already late."

  From the bathroom, Daniel's voice echoes around the tile. "Babe, were you gonna start the coffee? I'm dying here."

  I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. I brought this on myself.

  I swing my feet over the edge of the bed. The mattress exhales beneath me as I stand. My underwear is sticky, my t-shirt pulled sideways, one nipple peeking out. I fix myself as I pad down the hallway, grab my pill bottle from the kitchen counter, and dry swallow the day's prescription. The taste of bitterness lodges under my tongue. I fill the kettle, scoop the grounds, listen to the sputter and hiss of the machine laboring to life, and the symphony of cats meowing at my feet, like they haven't eaten in weeks. Okay, you little beasts.

  Plates full, coffee ready. I serve some on his go cup, add one sugar, a dash of oat milk, and snaps the lid on tight.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Daniel emerges, clean-shirted, hair wet, phone already to his ear. He grabs his cup, and makes a finger-gun at me as he passes, mouthing in exaggerated slow motion and leaves.

  I make myself tea and get ready to go to work. The morning chill called for layers. An olive green sweater soft against my skin, pulled over a fitted white tee with a turtle neck, paired with a short denim skirt full of baggy pockets, and those buttery brown boots that made me feel put-together.

  As I finish my makeup, I think, maybe Daniel's right.

  I love my job but lately I've been under a lot of stress. All because we,— or better said I — accepted this project that is driving the three of us nuts! Literally, I don't know why they didn't kill me yet, because I even wanna murder me. Why did I said yes to my ex-boss? Robert, the man Dean affectionately referred to as or, more recently, , to do the photography and video production of a high profile wedding here in New York.

  It's not even so much money for us, and weddings are a pain in the ass. The day of the wedding was insane, and now the editing is being the worst nightmare. After an email Dean got yesterday, at nine pm, with sixteen more , he texted that they needed to talk to me. This meeting hadn't been scheduled, it had been demanded.

  We've been going back and forth with the files since last week, and we thought that it was done with the last but one can only dream.

  The end of the winter chill nips at my cheeks while waiting for my taxi.

  Our studio — named — is conveniently located next to an insanely delicious Italian bakery. Which is a blessing and a curse at the same time, and I decided to buy some muffins as a peace offering.

  The sky's a brilliant blue today, with just a few fluffy clouds drifting lazily overhead. And maybe it is the contrast, but as soon I cross The Studio's door I can feel the heaviness in the air, thick with the shared exhaustion, and simmering resentment that had been brewing over the past couple of weeks.

  Our office consists of a duplex apartment with a lobby and a photograph studio on the first floor, bathed in natural light from large industrial windows. And our desks and a big wood table to plan things up on the top floor. It is part-plant conservatory, part-design lab, and part–college common room.

  I can hear the frenetic typing and scrolling. "Hi guys! I'm here," I call out, keeping my voice light and friendly. “I brought muffins!”

  Chairs scrape against the floor.

  "To the conference room!" Jessie's voice announces in a loud, serious tone. I press my lips together to keep from smiling. It's hard to take her seriously when I know how ridiculous she can be.

  I go upstairs and find them already sitting at the big table. Dean looks like he's not taking it today—arms crossed, a muscle ticking in his jaw—and Jessie makes her eyes sharp as knives and follows me all the way to my seat. They left the head of the table for me, to highlight my shame.

  I sit in my chair, and try to make myself very small. Thinking on how to approach this working day without them hating me. Jessie is still giving me a sharp eye look. I grab the bag of delicious fresh muffins and push it in the middle of the table.

  Jess points an accusatory finger at me. "Muffins are not going to save you from your transgressions!" and she proceeds to grab a napkin and a lemon blueberry muffin, sets them on the table, and snaps a photo.

  "Alright," Dean starts, his voice low but cutting through the silence. "Can we just call this what it is? An intervention."

  Jessie snorts. "An intervention slash therapy session because I need to vent!."

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Look, I know you guys are pissed—

  Dean cuts me off. "Pissed? Emma, we're beyond pissed. We've transcended pissed and are now hovering somewhere between homicidal rage and existential despair."

  He leans forward, locking eyes with me. "This wedding video plus pictures telling your fairy tale story. Whose bright idea was this again?”

  I raise my hand.

  Why do you like to make us suffer Emma! Why!?— finishes on a dramatic note — to Robert! Who has always had a knack for leveraging your inability to say no into free or ridiculously underpaid work. We quitted, remember? Why are we still working for him?"

  "He said it would be simple," I mumble.

  "They always say that" Jessie says in a duh! tone. Already picking the muffin like a little bird.

  I feel a familiar flush of shame creeping up my neck. "A quick edit, he said. A high-profile client, good for exposure, he said."

  Dean barks a laugh that holds no humor. "Simple? For a high-profile wedding? You know weddings are the herpes of the video production world, Emma. They just keep flaring up and demanding attention. And ‘good for exposure'? My exposure right now is to extreme levels of bullshit and the risk of developing carpal tunnel from clicking for the thousandth time."

  Jessie stands up, palms on the table, ready to finally spill all the hate she has inside. "Seriously. This ‘high-profile' bride treats the footage like her personal play-doh. ‘ What do you want us to do, CGI a smile on him?"

  She grabs her note pad and reads "And the corrections are contradictory! One email says , the next says ! One says , the next says ‘! It's like they're intentionally trying to break us."

  "They just might be,— Dean says darkly, pressing his fingertips together in a perfect steeple—or maybe Robert just pawned off his most difficult and annoying client on Emma, because he knows she's too nice to say no."

  "Being nice isn't a bad thing, Dean," I think Jess is starting to feel bad for me.

  "In Emma's case It's not a character flaw, it's a tactical disadvantage. Or, as I like to call it, weaponized stupidity."

  I sit there, watching Dean's frustrated face, and suddenly see myself clearly: the twelve-year-old who learned that being 'good' and accommodating meant her parents wouldn't be annoyed with her. When did I stop having opinions and start having strategies for being liked?

  I wince. Dean's harshness often stings.

  "Why, Emma?" Jessie also asks, her tone softer than his but no less pointed. "We're swamped with actual paying clients. We could have easily said we were booked solid. Why did you accept this… this torment?"

  The question hung heavy. I didn't have a good answer. A misplaced sense of loyalty? A fear of confrontation? A deeply ingrained habit of putting others' needs before my own, even when it cost me and my team dearly?

  "I… I don't know," I admit, the words barely a whisper. "He just… he asked, and I just… said yes."

  Silence hung for a moment, fill only by the hum of the computers.

  Dean leans back again, a dangerous glint in his eye.

  "Well, since we're stuck in this hellscape, can we at least brainstorm ways to make Robert pay? Hypothetically, of course."

  I half-smile. That sounds like they're done with making me suffer.

  Jessie's eyes sparkle. "Oh, I have a few ideas."

  "I'm thinking of something involving pigeons," Dean muses. "Release a flock of them into his office. Let them redecorate."

  "Eww, and unethical! Poor pigeons having to see Robert's face! But— Suddenly she looks like she is plotting the end of the human race — we could just glue a tape on the laser of his mouse so it doesn't work and he will never figure out why, it will drive him crazy!" Starts laughing like a villain.

  Dean exhales a bit too hard showing disappointment, "She's cute even for revenge".

  Eventually, the morbid humor runs its course, replaced by the grim reality of the looming deadline. Dean sighs, the tension returning to his shoulders.

  "Alright, alright. As much as I'd love to see Robert's office decorated with bird poop, we have shit to finish. Let's just… get it done."

  Jessie gathers her notes. "Fine. But we're billing them for every single one of these revisions."

  I look at them, at my friends who had followed me into this uncertain venture, who worked their asses off creating this beautiful studio from scratch, working all night, eating seven eleven noodle soup, full Gollum mode in front of the computers for days with no end, even when the profits weren't there yet. And I had landed them this headache.

  "Guys" I say. They both turn their chairs to look at me from their desks. "Thank you." My voice is thick. "Seriously. I know this is hell, and it's my fault we're in it." I met each of their eyes. "I will make this up to you. Somehow. Someday. Consider this a debt I owe you both."