My alarm buzzes, but I keep my eyes closed.

Last night, when I reached for my coat before the party had truly started, my friends laughed.

“Maya has a bedtime.”

“She has to wake up at exactly six.”

I laughed with them, as I always do.

Buzz.

The alarm pulls me back into the room. Pale light slips between the curtains, and unanswered messages wait on my phone. Nothing is different, yet their words remain with me.

Am I really that predictable?

My life works exactly as it is supposed to. I wake at the same time, follow the same route to work and drink the same black coffee—even though it is always more bitter than I like.

I answer messages promptly. I remember birthdays. I arrive early and stay late when someone needs me.

People tell me I have everything together. Some call me perfect.

I never correct them. I do not want them to know how much effort it takes to make my life look effortless.

There is comfort in being dependable. I am the person my friends call when plans change, work becomes overwhelming or they need someone to listen.

I am always there.

Just never long enough to discover what happens after everyone stops behaving.

At night, I return home, remove my makeup and climb into bed at a reasonable hour. Then I spend an unreasonable amount of time scrolling through the lives of women I do not know.

They travel alone, wear colors I never reach for and dance in crowded rooms without checking how they look. I know their lives are edited.

Still, I watch.

At 10:14 AM, my phone lights up beside my coffee.

A new message has arrived in my friends’ group chat. The image is almost entirely black, interrupted by folds of cherry red and a soft blush-pink glow.

At its center are two words:

THE SET

I open the invitation.

OPENING NIGHT

Five nights only. Entry by invitation.

Location revealed upon confirmation.

The image dissolves into a video. Women move beneath burgundy light, their faces hidden in shadow and their bodies caught between motion and stillness.

A bass line slips through my phone. My foot taps once beneath the table before I catch myself and stop it.

Bing.

We have to do this, one of my friends writes.

Another sends a row of fire emojis. Someone asks what everyone is wearing.

I open the registration page and enter my name and email address. At the final question, my fingers stop.

Will you be joining us?

For one impulsive moment, I imagine myself there, swaying my body in a hot wine-red outfit, cuts to show my curves exactly in the right place.

But I do not dance in rooms full of strangers. I barely stay at parties once the real dancing begins. Even if I changed my mind, I own nothing that belongs in a place like that.

It looks amazing, but I can’t, I type.

I stare at the message, then erase amazing.

I can’t. You all have fun.

I turn my phone face down and return to work.

By lunch, I have opened the invitation three more times.

That evening, I stand before my closet, moving through work blouses, wedding dresses and nearly identical pairs of black pants. Everything I own is tasteful, appropriate and easy to wear without attracting attention.

It made me feel worse. 

I close the closet and change into something familiar.

The decision is made.

I am not going.

I leave my apartment to pick up dinner. The air has cooled, music escapes through restaurant doors and groups of people pass me dressed for whatever the night might bring.

Halfway down the block, I reach Virelle, the boutique I have admired for months but never entered.

A dress stands alone in the window beneath a warm spotlight. It is deep cherry red, almost the wine-red color I imagined, darker where the fabric folds and almost luminous where the light touches it. It is bold without being excessive and elegant without trying to disappear.

My phone vibrates.

Your invitation is still waiting. Registration closes tonight.

For several seconds, I look from the invitation glowing on my phone to the dress behind the glass.

They belong to the same world.

A world I have already decided is not meant for me.

Someone enters the boutique. The door opens and slowly begins to close behind them.

I could continue walking. I could collect my dinner, return home, and prepare for another morning.

Instead, I cross the sidewalk.

I reach for the door before it closes.

Releasing on October 3rd

Releasing on October 17th

Releasing on October 24th

Releasing on October 31st

Releasing on November 7th