Routines That Burn Slow
The alarm ripped me out of a shallow sleep, that same old buzz dragging another day into existence. I woke straight into my routine—the one that had me locked in tight.
While the coffee brewed and breakfast came together, the writing itch crept back in, stubborn as ever. It was this new thing I’d picked up, and it unsettled me more than it should. For years I’d been editorial director at Heart of Ink, the indie press everyone knew for dropping addictive romance after addictive romance. Surrounded by manuscripts and authors, I’d spent my days shaping other people’s stories. Mine? Never touched paper. Not once.
I dressed without hurry: fitted jeans, soft pink sweater, tailored jacket on top. Nothing flashy, but when I caught my reflection, I smiled. Thirty looked good on me—skin still glowing, chestnut hair catching the light just right. I’d fought hard to actually like the body I lived in, to stop hiding from it. A quiet victory after years of shrinking myself in the background of Julián’s world.
He’d been pure ego and narcissism, the kind that slowly snuffed out every spark of self-worth I had left. The final betrayal was the clean break—the moment I realized I could keep living his version of my life or start writing my own. I chose mine.
I left the apartment with my head empty, autopilot set to work.
The second I stepped into the office, María López—our executive director and co-founder—spotted me. Petite, brown skin, cropped dark hair, mid-fifties, and always radiating this warm, wrap-you-up energy like she was born to hug the whole world.
“Hey, my favorite Stephanie! How’s my girl feeling this morning?” she said, pulling me into one of her signature bear hugs.
“Hey, boss María! I’m good—how about you? Everything calm?”
“Pretty chill today. Light load, so we can actually breathe.”
“Music to my ears. I’ll grab a coffee and dive in,” I said, giving her a quick wave as I headed to my desk.
The day’s manuscript was already waiting: Somebody to Love. I opened the file and—bam—it grabbed me by the throat. Broken people, an impossible pull between them, the kind of raw passion that doesn’t bother explaining itself.
Halfway through, irony hit like a slap. Here I was, knee-deep in epic love stories every single day, while my own life stayed small, controlled, quiet.
I greenlit it on the spot. The potential was screaming. This book deserved eyes on it. It deserved to be felt in someone’s chest.
When I finally clocked out, my feet carried me straight to my escape: Mercury’s Caffè. Just a cozy little spot where I could sit with no plan and let words spill onto the page. I didn’t have a real story yet—sometimes romance flickered in my head, sometimes something darker. Mostly it was fragments, loose threads of me, wandering without a map.
I’d barely cracked my notebook open when my phone buzzed. Camila González. My ride-or-die.
“Hey, girl! What are you up to?” Her voice came through all conspiratorial, the tone I knew meant trouble—or at least good gossip.
“Hiii, Cami! Just chilling at the caffè, unwinding a little. You?”
“Knew you’d be there. I’m almost at the door—got something to drop on you.”
“I’ll be right here,” I said, curiosity already sparking like a match.
She pushed through the door with that smile—the one that always promised a storm was coming. Camila. Thirty-two, mom of two, wife, language teacher. Blonde hair always flawless, eyes sparkling with something I could never quite pin down: joy? Exhaustion dressed up pretty? Maybe both.
We’d been inseparable for years. She was my safe place, the one who’d seen every version of me. Camila had lived the full menu: kids, marriage, the daily grind… and a little extra on the side. Looking at her sometimes felt like staring down a parallel road—a life where I’d made different choices.
Today, though, she was carrying something big. I could tell the second our eyes locked.
