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It had admittedly taken her a few weeks before she worked up the courage to send Corey and Charlie a group text message asking if they could meet up to talk. Despite everything that had happened at Blackstone Brews, Sara was usually a non-confrontational person. The first time she'd been put in the middle of Corey and Charlie had been accidental, and the second time was her being stupid, opinionated and unfair. Both times were a mistake, but she had nobody else to blame but herself for what happened between her and Charlie at the café. They deserved an apology. Contrary to her behavior, and Charlie saying that she was all about high school drama, Sara could identify when she was wrong, and would own up to her shit and apologize.

They agreed to meet at one of the dog parks in Ridgeview Heights - Sara seeing on Instagram that Corey had ended up adopting a Doberman named Bruin from the shelter a week or so after they'd been there to see her adopt Greg. Sara walked her tiny French Bulldog puppy on the lead to the park, then let him loose for the first time; his final puppy vaccine having been given over a fortnight ago. He had an ocean-themed harness on, something she'd bought with Corey at PetSmart after his adoption. Sara rolled his matching lead and waste bag up and tossed them into her velvet green crossbody bag. She was fully stocked this time: a water bottle for her and a dog one for Greg, her medication pouch, puppy treats. She spotted Corey and Charlie standing off to one side, close to the fence, and Sara sucked in a breath before approaching.

She made sure to keep a short distance between them; space, if they needed it. "Hey." Sara greeted, holding her own hand so they wouldn't see how much her skin was shaking with anxiety. "Is it okay if I talk first?" She asked. They could both chew her out still after the fact, Sara just wanted to get her overexplaining out of the way first. "I'm really sorry. Genuinely. To the both of you. But especially to you, Charlie." Sara looked the other woman directly in the eye, so she could see her sincerity. "It was well and truly none of my business. I'm not trying to make excuses, either, but I think it just... triggered me, I guess. I got out of a relationship a few months ago where I wasn't treated very well, and I was never prioritized, and it fucked with my self-esteem. I was coming from a place of wanting to protect Corey from that, because that was what I thought your relationship was, but I know now that I was wrong for that." She talked fast, needing them to understand and not hate her. If they did, they were entitled to that, but Sara still needed to explain herself.

"I was projecting. Big time. And it was really unfair to the both of you. You didn't ask me to do that for you, and you don't need me to do it for you, either." Sara said this part directly to Corey. "So, I'm really sorry. I take full accountability for fucking things up. I... I messed up, and stuck my nose where I shouldn't - where it didn't need to be." She corrected her use of the word should, like always. Deeply inhaled and exhaled, cheeks pinked up from all her talking. "The ball's in your court." She said, hoping they'd both somehow enjoy the sports metaphor. It was their turn now - she steeled herself for whatever it was that they had to say to her in return.

Neela only had two tattoos - one on each forearm - and it'd been years since she’d gotten a new one. Why not? She was entering a new stage of her life, she deserved it! And the pain was nothing for her to sweat: she experienced worse than a thousand needles stabbing into her skin on a daily basis with her Fibro. Her previous two tattoos had both been simple enough; colorless outlines of a sunflower, and a quick black-and-white sketch of the dollhouse from 13 Going on 30. Her ideas for her next tattoo, a yoyo, involved something more intricate - multiple flowers, colored ink, hand detailing. Her mom had a hand tattoo, and it was one of the things Neela most vividly remembered about her. She loved cosmos and dahlias and camelias. Geraniums. It was a wonder why Neela's name wasn't something different, honestly.

She'd drawn up a sketch of her design idea before leaving for the tattoo shop. The website said walk-ins were welcome, and the place seemed relatively empty when Neela stepped foot inside it. The artist behind the desk had the most gorgeous ginger hair she'd ever seen before, with a sleeve of tattoos peeking out of her shirt. "Hi there." She greeted, arms swinging as she made a stop in front of the reception desk. "I don't have an appointment, I'm sorry! I was hoping you'd be free for a walk-in?" Neela's voice went high and hopeful, her painted nails drumming against the counter top. "Oh, I have a design here." She pulled her phone out of the front pocket of her jeans and found a photo of her drawn-up design to show it to her.

She'd finally started to leave her apartment building for more than just the mail. Or a (slow) walk around the block. She'd spent the past two weeks traipsing around town, familiarizing herself with all the local spots, actually buying her own groceries instead of getting them delivered. And it was exhausting. Hopeful, in a weird way, but still exhausting. Neela needed a rest day. Time for her broken body to recover. The fibro fatigue felt worse than a hangover, and it usually took several days of nothingness to get her back to her baseline level of functioning. Hah. "Functioning."

She stayed in bed for as long as possible before Greg, her French Bulldog puppy (her Thanksgiving present to herself!) stirred and needed to be let out to be relieved. Too bone-tired to change out of her pajamas—a ratty old shirt and a pair of bright pink pants with cartoon lemons on them—Neela stood outside of her apartment building with little to no shame about it. Once Greg had done his business, and her back had cracked while bending to clean up his mess, Neela led the puppy on his leash back inside the apartment complex. She took the elevator up to her floor, and was greeted by the sight of Diego, one of her neighbors, upon the doors opening. Her cheeks flushed brighter than her pajamas, suddenly (finally) self-aware of her attire. Not that it really mattered too much; Diego had only ever seen her as a complete and utter mess. Crying because of Izzy, or hearing them fight through thin apartment walls. Neela's hair a matted mess, in the same clothes as yesterday during her self-imposed isolation, when he'd catch her rifling through her mail in the lobby. Her looking so disheveled probably wasn't anything new for him, huh?

Neela tried to swallow the feeling of embarrassment and waved hello to him, Greg's leash twisted around her wrist. "Hey, how are you?" She asked, finding her voice. Smiling. He had a stack of fliers in his hand—the sight of the rainbow flag quickly captured her attention. "What d'you got there?" Neela angled her chin in the direction of his project, curiosity replacing her chagrin. Better to talk about that, or Diego in general, than the state of herself or her outfit.

Her girl's night out with Mickey was winding down. They'd had a great time, too - the food had been amazing, Sara had a new favorite drink in the form of a non-alcoholic, virgin margarita, and she had more than enough photos on her camera's storage card to create a miniature replica of Şerefe for Aslan.

Even after a few good hours together hanging out, Sara - for whatever reason - surprisingly didn't feel tired. Just happy. Buzzed, even without the alcohol. She didn't want to keep Mickey from Aslan for too long, either - it was both hilarious and a little gross every time they looked at each other from across the bar. And even though Sara had promised her friend that she was going to go slow on dates from now on, she found herself wanting to message Matt to see if he was free. If he wanted to hang out for the rest of what remained of this Saturday night. It didn't have to be a date or something serious - just hang out in a bar together, get to know each other more, and see where they landed.

She got Mickey's opinion and approval, just in case. Didn't want her to think she was bailing on girl's night, or breaking some unspoken girl's night rule by asking to meet up with her brother. And they continued to talk at their table until Matt arrived. "Thanks again for tonight, girl. We'll do this again soon?" Sara asked, drawing Mickey into a goodbye hug.

Sara adjusted the off-the-shoulder sleeves of her dress and practically skipped to the entrance of the bar to meet Matt. "Hey, Lavender." She grinned, eyes shining in the dark of the crowded space around them. A complete contrast to the way he met her at the Peach Festival, curled up and crying on a park bench. "Thanks for comin' out. I know it's late, but I didn't feel like going home yet." She explained, rolling back and forth on her tip toes. "How are you? Can I buy you a drink?" She offered, arms swinging in the direction of Bobby manning the bar. The fact that she wasn't drinking alcohol was besides the point.

It was like instant karma for having stuck her nose in it. 

As soon as she got into her car in the parking lot of Blackstone Brews, she spilled the rest of her iced coffee all over herself. Great. Waste of time and money - and a once-perfectly clean outfit. She refused to go back inside to grab napkins, not with Charlie still sitting at her table, so she resorted to using a wad of tissues from the box in her glove compartment. Sadly, it didn't get the job done. 

The adrenaline from the confrontation had been the only thing keeping her on her feet the whole time in the café. It was the only reason she'd been able to stand for so long in one spot, and her body was feeling it now, driving back to her apartment. Her ankle strained against the accelerator pedal. Her hip was aching from even the slightest movements. And her arms were sore; tensed and extended while she held onto the steering wheel. Her spine felt out of place against the backrest of her car seat. She was starting to feel awful on the inside about how she'd talked to Charlie. Guilty. She should've just kept her mouth shut and minded her own business! But nope! Ruled by her emotions, and her trauma, she'd caused trouble where they didn't need to be any. And now her body and her mind were paying for it.

And then her grip on the steering wheel got unstable, the car slightly swerving on an angle across the road. Fuck. Did her tire just pop? Sara let out a momentary, primal noise, flicked her hazard lights on, and pulled the car over onto the road's shoulder to investigate. Yep. It was one of her tires, flat as a pancake. Karma, karma, karma. "Fucking hell." She swore, slumping back against her car door. It was a second-hand, lime green-colored Kia Soul. It was the 2018 model, and getting older in years, but Sara had never had anything like this happen to her before. She didn't even know what the number was for her insurance's roadside assist.

Big Mike's Auto Shop couldn't be too far, right? A couple of blocks from her apartment, surely. If they towed her there, she could force herself through the walk back home while someone fixed the car up. Or maybe one of the workers would be kind enough to change her tire, 'cos no way was Sara physically in the right shape to do it herself. Ugh. Sara punched the name into the Google search on her phone and dialed through to them. "Hi there. Um, I'm not too far from your auto shop and I've got a flat. Is it possible to get someone out here to help me, please? I'm happy to pay." Did she even have a spare in her trunk? Sara knew nothing about cars. The person on the other end of the phone line agreed, and gave her an estimated wait time. Hanging up, Sara groaned in frustration. Today just wasn't her day, was it?

Sara had long since learned that the best place to get designer brands on the cheap were at thrift stores. And she'd discovered this young, living on Long Island. They had the Tanger outlet mall really close by to her childhood home, and before she even hit her pre-teen years it became the hangout spot for her and her friends. When that got majorly old and uncool, thrifting became the next best thing. She wanted to dress like Jennifer Garner in 13 Going on 30 from the age of eight, okay? And her father, who spent most of his paychecks on booze outside of the necessities, was never going to fund that, now was he? For Sara, it became a necessity. By a certain age, she had to start doing all of her own clothes shopping. Her dad had no idea about sizes, about what various items they needed for various seasons in New York. If you want something done properly, do it yourself, she was quick to learn, having to live with her father.

Ananya got all of her hand-me-downs, at least. And very fashionable ones, at that! As the eldest daughter, Sara always made sure she was well-looked after, especially when their father didn't have the capacity to. It just (more than) kind of sucked that she had to.

Thrifting and fashion became an escape. She started doing it before it blew up and became cool and trendy and a cultural phenomenon, at least. Not to be one of those people, but... it was true. Her current money situation didn't allow for her to buy designer directly off the rack, either, so thrifting became one of the only ways she bought clothes outside of shopping at local boutiques. It was definitely going to be the only other way to buy nice clothes in small town Texas, she was sure.

Sara liked to dress up for the occasion, always. Every single time. She straightened and curled her hair with an iron, put on a face full of make-up, and slipped into a gingham mini-dress with double black belts attached and knee-high leather boots - surprisingly comfortable on her feet given her Fibro. Her Google search led her to a place called The Attic a ways out of town. And she felt like a total kid in a candy store, or like a kid with the freedom to do their own Christmas shopping. Not even five minutes in the place and she found a tweed two-piece Chanel set: a glittered, cropped jacket and a matching skirt both adorned with gold navy buttons and chains. In her size.

Sara snatched the two coat hangers off the rack so damn fast that the entire thing shook and started to topple over. "Oh, fuck!" She cursed, clinging to her new favourite outfit with her life while also trying to keep the display from falling on her. That'd be all her and her chronically ill body needed right now. Another woman thankfully came to her aid, holding half of the weight of the display up and straightening it out with her. "Oh, you're a lifesaver!" Sara sighed, chest rising and falling in quick succession - the Fibro fatigue knocking the air out of her lungs.

Once they were safe, she glanced over at the stranger and her eyes got wide. "Girl, your outfit! You're a fucking Goddess." Sara complimented, mouth parted in shock and awe. The woman was also in a matching set: a baby blue and chocolate brown houndstooth patterned skirt, crop top and cardigan. "I think I'm obsessed with you." No filter whatsoever. Sara didn't even care, to be honest. She was in her happy place, and art was made to be commented on and appreciated.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm Sara!" Obsessed, but she still didn't know her new fashion idol's name. "Do you think you could please stay and give me your opinion on this? I trust you." She held up her Chanel clothes, somehow still safe in her arms, and gestured with the tilt of her head toward the dressing room cubicles at the back of the store. Sara still had plenty of shopping to do, but she needed this woman's opinion and approval as much as she needed to buy the damn outfit.

God, she felt down today. Bogged down by the realities of living with Fibromyalgia. The pain was just... well and truly never going to end. She'd be suffering for the rest of her life. Living off of pain meds, spending the majority of the money she made on medical bills. Fuck. Sometimes it just got too much. It all felt too much, too overwhelming, too much like she wanted to physically crawl outside of her own broken body. And she felt so emotionally exhausted after her appointment with the pain specialist at the hospital that she just needed to sit for awhile. Regulate herself, maybe eat something. Self care, self compassion. Needing something to distract herself with.

It'd been a huge session today. They talked about ketamine infusion therapy for the first time, and Sara didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know if she had it in her to make space to even contemplate it. Not right now, at least.

She had to literally drag herself to the hospital cafeteria, her feet shuffling with as little effort as possible across the linoleum floor. The soles of her feet felt like pinpricks today. Felt like she was walking across crushed shards of glass with every step that she took. It wasn't fair. And she got hung up on that a lot: how unfair and inhumane it felt having to exist like this. She felt like that today. She felt sorry for herself. Exhausted and hurting. Emotionally and physically raw.

Food, food, she needed food. Her Sunflower lanyard swung off her neck while she slowly slogged along. It was annoying her today. But that made sense - she was overwhelmed and overstimulated. Hungry. Sara approached the cafeteria line feeling defeated. Her voice was monotone when she ordered a peppermint tea and eggs with toast from the counter. The lady served her with a sympathetic smile - which was probably standard, working in a hospital cafeteria. Sick people everywhere. For once, it didn't register for Sara. It didn't make her feel better like it normally would.

There weren't a lot of free or empty tables in the seating area of the cafeteria. The only one she could see that wasn't torturously located at the other end of the room was two small tables pushed together to form a makeshift four-seater. A man who seemed to be around her age was occupying one half of it, looking as sullen and downcast as she felt. There was an unpeeled banana on the table in front of him, and a barely touched bottle of orange juice set down beside it.