Angels Around Us: Heaven's Torment, #1

By Victoria Liiv

After falling out of the sky- quite literally- with an airplane, Amber goes though life simply surviving from week to week. Her traumatic experience keeps on haunting her day and night, but mostly at night, and it seems there's no way out. Nothing left to try for. If life is only a torture, why keep on going?

The answer is simple: Adriaan.

The man has managed to get through her defences and keeps her hope alive. He's the reason the get out of bed in the morning. He's the reason to push through the terror encompassing her. He's also her therapist. A new fear surfaces past the trauma: confessing her feelings for him.

Adriaan couldn't possibly love her back. Not only because relationships between a therapist and their patient are not allowed, but also because she's damaged.

Keeping her obsession secret draws Amber closer to Huub. He's nice. He's successful. He's good in bed. But he's not Adriaan.

Amber struggles through life, holding onto a small spark of hope and the love she keeps on running from.

 

Angels Around Us was first published as part of Tease Me Contemporary Romance Collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Liiv
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223448259

Book preview

BEFORE,

March 21st, 2018

EARLY THIS MORNING, United Airlines flight UA9203 crashed into the raging waves in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a news anchor said on the TV.

The screen shows the endless water where pieces of the plane floated around the surface—the only things left of the accident. The night’s storm has calmed down a little, but the camera still picks up a light drizzle. The wind and waves are pushing the aircraft’s pieces around like Adriaan is pushing around the cereal in his bowl while he watches the news on a big OLED screen turned towards the dining table from the living room.

The plane was on its way from New York to Amsterdam. The pilot’s ‘mayday’ call was received by the captain of the cruise ship Queen Mary 2, which luckily happened to be in the vicinity of the crash site when it all went down. Twenty-seven of the survivors were later picked up and delivered to Amsterdam UMC medical centre for checkups and further care. The two pilots and remainder of the passengers have not been found yet. Boeing 787 is designed to carry two hundred forty passengers from which two hundred three were sold out for flight UA9203.

It is needless to say that the majority of the passengers must have not made it out alive. The camera shows crashing waves once again, a big cruise ship and a crewman launches into a story of how they fished the survivors out of the freezing water when Adriaan’s phone goes off.

Lucas, you don’t usually call this early, he says after he picks up.

Did you hear about the plane crash? his brother shoots right back. His voice is stretched tight as if it takes a lot of control for him to get the question out at all. Adriaan doesn’t know what has unsettled Lucas’ usually cheerful self, but he is used to waiting for answers and he’s sure he’ll find out in the next couple of minutes.

I’m watching the news right now. It’s absolutely horrid, Adriaan replies calmly as the footage replays the image of broken pieces being pushed around the waves. 

It’s made it to the news already? Lucas scrambles around for what can only be a TV remote and the sound of it switching on fills the silence between them for a moment.

You didn’t hear about it from the news, Adriaan says matter-of-factly. He dreads what an affirmative reply to that observation means.

No, Lucas says quietly. His voice loses its edge as the storm plays out on the TV screen. Dad called. I said I’d let you know. He has started to prepare for the funeral ceremony.

Adriaan makes himself take a deep breath after the words leave his brother’s mouth. Maybe it sounds worse than it actually is. He can’t stop his heart dropping to the bit of his stomach, however, and as much as he tries to keep his voice calm, he can’t quite manage to hide his slight panic. 

Who was on the plane?

The returning missionaries, Lucas replies through his own shock and pain. Bob, Casper, Karlijn, they were all on it.

That’s why their father would be the one to call. He was most likely following the flight plan to pick them up from the airport himself. The church was as thick as family and Dad would take this news harder than most.

Did any of them survive? Adriaan asks through a tight throat. A prayer rising to his lips as his brain plays back the moment where the news anchor's voice relied the facts. Twenty seven survivors. What were the chances? Lucas mentioned a funeral.

No, Lucas replies.

Adriaan lets the prayer escape anyway. His heart aches at the thought of the loss. Bob used to be the youth leader when Adriaan still went to Sunday school and Karlijn would bring baked goods every Sunday. Even though Adriaan didn’t really know Casper all that well, he’d been Dad’s protege. There were no better people to meet such a horrible end. God bless their souls.

I’ll visit Mom and Dad tonight, Adriaan decides. "See if he needs any help with the ceremony, or the Sunday service.

He’s tried to get you up on that stage so often. Never knew something so devastating would finally break your resolve.

I was always better at listening than talking, Adriaan says quietly, although it’s not quite true. His job involves a decent amount of talking, not as much as a Priester would speak on a Sunday, but certainly enough to be fairly good at it.

You’ve been good at both, ever since— Lucas doesn’t finish, but they both know what he was about to say. He started to pay attention to the people around him more after a different, not less devastating incident. Lucas still found it hard to speak about it and it was fourteen years ago. Some wounds didn’t heal.

After Adriaan ends his phone call, he forces himself to take a deep breath once again. His heart aches at the thought of all the suffering. A tear rolls down his cheek as he looks at his TV screen again, the compassion only growing the longer the story plays out.

It is the sorrowful days when Adriaan feels that his choice of a profession is the right one. He might not be able to help the one hundred seventy-six souls lost in the sea, as it is unlikely they’ll be found alive—no matter how badly he wants it to be different—but he could lighten up the hearts of their loved ones when they come to him in search of a way to live with the pain. He could help the survivors come out of the traumatic experience with their sanity attached. If any of them are assigned to him for therapy, that is. He has a few open spots in his work schedule, and he is ready to take on more responsibility.

On the brighter news, the day is going to be sunny, with temperatures ranging from sixteen to twenty degrees Celsius...

Adriaan stops listening. He takes two steps to the kitchen and leaves his barely touched breakfast in the sink on top of last night’s dinner plate. He would clean it up later.

WEEK ONE,

May 7th to 13th

PEOPLE SAY, YOUR LIFE will flash in front of your eyes, and You will see the light at the end of the tunnel. I thought it was true. Must’ve been, right? Those sayings got so popular, they were used in fiction books and movies like they were proven facts. Seeing the best moments of my life would have been better than the salty water burning my eyes, and the light in the tunnel would have certainly beat the deep darkness grabbing at me, pulling me deeper into its grasp despite the life vest—and despite the efforts of my tired limbs splashing in the unforgiving waves.

Gasping for air, when there was none to find.

Lungs burning from the effort.

Pain. Everywhere.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. And the fear? Nobody tells you about the gripping fear; they tell you fairy tales about peace that engulfs you as you smile into the face of whoever is waiting on the other side. The pain is gone now, but the fear has stayed with me. I’m afraid it will never leave again.

My mother advised me to go to therapy, no matter the costs, because professionals know better how to deal with traumatic experiences. I could start moving on with my life.

As if life had stopped after the accident.

As if I had stopped living.

I don’t even have the chance to take a breather. I am moving on, together with life and everybody in it, but I am dragging the past with me in a light grey luggage bag with four wheels and a retractable handle. It isn’t hard covered like some of the suitcases are, closer to a rollable duffel bag—a lot like the one I lost. I can even imagine the sticker around the handle stating the location it was supposed to end up in but never did. Maybe therapy will help me finally leave it all behind.

Forgotten. In the depths of the ocean. Together with my favourite jeans and sweater, Canon EOS 200D, new pair of sneakers, and the rest of my things.

Renewing half of my wardrobe isn’t the worst part. You can always buy new things. What I can’t live with are the nightmares, the terror that has lingered at the edge of my consciousness every day since the crash.

I leave my car in one of the hidden gems of parking lots, where nobody asks for payment, and walk the rest of the way to the address saved on my phone. I thought the short walk would calm my nerves, but I am even more anxious when I stop in front of the red-brick building fitting the address in my notes. Even though the sign at the building’s entrance clearly states Counseling and Therapy, I double check the email and Google Maps before trusting to step inside. The metal door creaks a little when I push at it, and it closes heavily behind me, mercilessly trapping me in the foreign space.

Inside, the receptionist looks at me expectantly when I stop to glance around. There is a small waiting room left of her. Green, leafy wallpaper covers a wall opposite the windows, and a line of cheerfully colourful chairs stretches underneath the high windowsill. Two vending machines stand proudly next to a big palm that matches the wallpaper to perfection. One provides snacks and the other drinks. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that besides sleepless nights, I’m also not eating enough.

Through the glass doors I see an older woman sitting among the greenery on one of those colourful chairs. She has a book open on her lap but keeps looking up from the pages impatiently. When her eyes drop to the book again, it doesn’t look like they really take in the words sprawled across the paper.

A well-lit corridor painted in soft yellow glides past the receptionist and seems to lead to where the therapy rooms are. Several closed doors are visible from where I am standing. Pictures and quotes I can’t make out hang on regular intervals adorning the walls.

Everything looks intentionally warm and welcoming.

Just like the woman smiling at me from behind the counter. How can I help you? she asks.

Umm. I have an appointment? I bite my lip, looking behind her at the posters that are hanging from the walls.

Five Steps to Manage Emotions, one reads, while the other one promises me that whatever I say will stay between me and my therapist. I am hoping it is an older woman with kind eyes and a comforting smile, saying things like, You are not alone.

The receptionist nods, typing away at her computer. Your name?

Amber. Amber de Brock, I say, turning away from the posters.

If all goes well, I will be seeing them every week for the next year or so. I really hope I will like the woman, older or not. She’ll be able to help me sort through the experience I can’t seem to leave behind.

Take a seat. Doctor Alfons will call you in shortly.

More nervous by the minute, I stumble into the waiting room, where the other woman is still impatiently looking around every couple of seconds and pointedly not reading her book.

Hello, I say as I sit down, leaving two chairs open between us.

Hi, she responds absently, barely glancing at me.

A minute later, a brown-haired woman with striking blue eyes comes for her and they walk into the yellow-walled corridor. She seemed nice but clearly isn't going to be my therapist. My appointment starts—I look at my phone—in three minutes.

Relaxing jazz music plays quietly in the background. It does nothing to calm me down. I am not waiting long, but by the end of it, I feel like vomiting. My heart is trying to jump out of my chest, and I almost feel like I am underwater again. Drowning in my own stupid nerves.

Hello. You must be Amber.

I look up from my phone, finding comfort in its familiar shape in my hand and the WhatsApp group chat, where Idy messaged the girls about dinner plans for Wednesday night. A dark-haired man is standing by the glass doors to the waiting room, his dark brown eyes assessing me patiently. An easy smile adorns his face, which is hidden under a slight beard that covers his chin all the way to his hairline. His dark jeans and the pullover he’s wearing do nothing to diminish his good looks. He could be an Instagram model, for all the perfection I see.

Doctor Alfons? I ask, hoping it isn’t him. I bite my lip and stare at him some more. How could I talk about the nightmares and the fear to someone like him? He doesn’t look like someone who’s ever been afraid. Would he understand me at all?

Call me Adriaan. Please, he says with a warm smile. If you’re ready, you can follow me.

Oh, sweet lord above, help me.

I slip my phone back into my purse and stand up. What if I’m not ready? Could I sit in the waiting room for another hour? I think not.

He leads me to a bright room with a big window looking into a small patch of trees behind the building, and my eyes land on a man outside. He is walking two corgis on a footpath in between the green heaven. The dogs pad around wiggling their tails happily in the sunlight. The simple joy in the animals makes me smile.

I wish I could be that easily pleased.

You can have a seat, if you’d like, Dr. Alfons—Adriaan—says, and I look around the room to find a very inviting sofa across from an armchair that would clearly be his seat for the session. Further in the room, a desk faces toward the entrance, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf covers the whole back wall behind it, leaving no room for posters telling me to Relax and Just Tell my Story. The creamy walls and the sun shining through the trees outside the window fill the room with warmth. It’s not as bad as I feared. Not a cold white-walled box to trap me in.

Make yourself at home, my therapist says when he notices I still haven’t moved from the doorway. Would you like something to drink? Water? Tea?

I nod slightly. Water sounds good. I haven’t realised how dry my throat is before he suggests it. He moves around in the room, and I notice a mini fridge with a glass door in the corner opposite the table. Cans of cola and water bottles are lined up neatly inside, and a coffee machine takes up a significant amount of space on the small countertop next to it.

When I am still standing stiffly after he passes me the drink, he must’ve decided leading by example is better than his light suggestions pointing me toward feeling more comfortable. He lowers himself into the armchair across from the sofa, placing his own water bottle onto a low round table right next to it.

Reluctantly, I inch towards the sofa as he waits. I feel like a child being scrutinised by a very attentive parent. I do not enjoy the feeling. His eyes on me do nothing to ease my nerves.

When I lower myself to the seat, I am not expecting to be hugged by the many pillows on the sofa like they are meeting an old friend they haven’t seen in a while. Chill out. I’m new here.

Sitting down does feel great. So much so that I am wondering if I will ever get up again.

Dr. Alfons adjusts a notebook in his lap and takes a pen out of his breast pocket, which makes me stare more pointedly at his form. He is lean and taut. Broad shoulders make me wonder what he has going for him under the layers of clothes he’s wearing. He is in good shape, his body being just as attractive as his face. How in the world did he end up as a therapist and not a movie star?

When Adriaan clears his throat, I realise I’ve been staring and sharply look at the cap of my water bottle in my hands. His attention on me makes me skittish and shy. I am supposed to tell this man my life story, and I can’t even look at him without my mouth watering.

Okay, I say nervously before Dr. Alfons has a chance to say anything himself. The room feels heavy, and I’d honestly rather be a corgi flopping my tail around outside in the park. Let’s be honest.

He quirks an eyebrow. That would be the most beneficial, indeed.

I’ve never done this before. I absently unscrew the water bottle and then close it back again. I’m not sure how this works. Do I just say anything that comes to my mind or ...?

Adriaan smiles at me from the armchair. I like that look on him. That’s one of the things we are going to discuss today and see what would work best for you.

I nod, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip before closing the bottle again.

I saw your file, but I would like you to tell me about yourself. What brought you here?

Uh oh. Let’s talk about that right away, then.

An airplane, I say, and in a way it’s true. If he has read through the medical history I sent—a file, as he calls it—he would surely know what I mean. That and the nightmares.

He nods thoughtfully. Are the dreams about anything specific?

Is he asking if I dream about the accident? What else would make me wake up in cold sweat, dreading to see nothing but waves around me? I didn’t think I would be talking about the horrors in my head right away. I feel uncomfortable sharing my darkest side with a stranger, even if he is a professional.

The same every time, I say, staring past him out of the window. There is another dog owner taking their beloved pet out on a leisurely stroll. This one is a German shepherd walking contentedly right next to its owner.

I hear Adriaan shift in his chair to follow my gaze. If this distracts you, I can close the curtains, he offers.

Please don’t. I drag my gaze away from freedom and look toward him instead. It’s normal, right? To have bad dreams after ... I can’t seem to say it out loud. His warm eyes study me, like he is used to waiting while people search for the correct words. ... accidents?

There is a gleam in his eyes as if he is proud of me for finishing the sentence. I feel like a five-year-old again, trying to explain to my mother that the reason the walls were scribbled on was merely because I couldn’t find any paper.

Posttraumatic nightmares are a common occurrence in my patients, yes, he replies. He studies me a second longer, clearly realizing that despite how nice the sofa feels, I am not comfortable enough to share about that yet. He clears his throat. Why don’t we get to know each other this session? Hi, Amber, I’m Adriaan. He smiles a little, as if we just started from a new page. I like to read, take walks in the forest, and I love to help people who need a little guidance.

My heart leaps a little inside my chest, and I try to calm it down. It’s not a date. I don’t have to live up to his standards.

Hey, I say softly. Umm... photography could be called one of my hobbies. I mostly snap pictures of nature or cityscapes. I lost my camera, though,—what a downer!—so that’s on hold for now.

Lost it? he asks curiously. It’s like having a normal conversation.

Oh yeah, you know... It must’ve sunk.

Understanding crosses his eyes, and he doesn’t let me ponder long about the loss. What else? Any other activities you enjoy?

Gardening? I suggest, as if he would know the answer. Living in an apartment, I don’t even own a garden. Taking care of plants, however, feels satisfying. I have a tomato plant on my balcony and a few herbs. Clearly, it is not gardening per se, as no garden is involved in the process. Do I see amusement flicker in his eyes? But it’s as close to it as I can get right now.

That’s good. He’s trying to keep himself from saying anything further and loses the battle. The most I do in my garden is mowing the lawn.

Oh? Is he suggesting he needs help designing his backyard? I look away from him, unscrew my water bottle again, and play with the cap. There are two more dogs outside the window, and I blurt, And I love dogs. Never had one, though. My mother always said I couldn’t possibly take care of one, and she couldn’t stand all that hair around the house.

And now?

I tilt my head curiously. Now?

Why don’t you get a dog now? You’re old enough to decide on your own.

He’s right. I am old enough. Twenty-four is old enough to make big decisions like that. Hurray!

I ... I don’t know. I guess I never thought I could ... Besides, I live in an apartment. It’s not ideal for a dog.

There are plenty of dogs that wouldn’t mind apartment living, he informs me.

I hesitate at that. Yeah. I know.

It’s just that ... I always thought I would like to have a bigger dog, one you can wrap your arms around and know—It’s stupid. Are we seriously discussing dogs right now?

It’s not stupid, Amber. Know what?

Adriaan, my therapist, got me to talk about something completely other than the reason I am actually there. I guess that’s a start. I guess I could give that part of me away, right?

Know that they’d be strong enough to protect you if you ever got in trouble, I say quietly. Childish dreams. Thinking a dog could stand up for you when you weren’t brave enough yourself.

I see him writing something down, but he is not laughing at me. He must have been taking notes the whole time because when he flips a page, I can make out a few words on a filled page.

Do you think, Adriaan asks, that you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself?

So much for light conversation. I stop talking.

There are so many things I still can’t do on my own: process my tax return, hang lamps in the apartment, I never learned to bake. Of course, there are things I’m good at too, but not nearly as many.

Your apartment, he says, when I don’t say anything for a long while. Do you live alone?

That’s a question I can answer.

Yes.

And your parents? Adriaan nudges.

Just my mother. What about her?

Is she reachable? Do you talk often?

The conversation we had before turns into a one-sided game of Questions and Answers. Although, the topic is still acceptable.

She lives in Eindhoven, less than a two-hour ride on a good day. We chat a few times a week. She was the one who suggested I ... reach out? Get help, that is.

Your father, is he—

I interrupt him, He left when I was young. I can’t remember much about him. If anything at all.

He shakes his head lightly while writing this down, thinking I won’t notice.

I never cared for him. It was just another thing I didn’t have. Oh. Now that I put it that way, it sounds rather sad. No. Seriously, I try again when he looks up from his notebook, it didn’t affect me.

Well, much.

I don’t have daddy issues. I was alright growing up without a father. A few other kids in my age group who were experiencing the same abandonment took it a lot harder than I did. I always thought a dog would be better than a person, anyway. Loyal and loving. I used to walk all our neighbours’ dogs. At least, that my mother didn’t mind.

I think that’s one of the reasons I like dogs so much, I wonder out loud. They are a complete opposite of what my mother ever told me about my father.

I see, Adriaan says, obviously writing that down.

I bite my lip, daring a look at him.

So, dogs, photography, and gardening? Sounds like a great combination.

Add a walk in the forest in the mix and it’s perfection, I reply, my heartbeat picking up again. Shut up, Amber, you are not here to flirt with the man.

He lets out a surprised chuckle, and I stare out the window again to avoid his eyes.

I feel a little better by the end of the session. More confident, too, in my decision to talk to someone. Adriaan Alfons kept the topics light, asking me about my work and why I chose interior design and what’s my favourite memory from growing up. I tell him a little about my friends. As he is wrapping up the session, he gets more serious again.

Are you available for next week at the same time? Adriaan asks me, standing up from his chair.

I nod, struggling to get up from the sofa. Monday morning. There’s no better time to spill your guts to a stranger.

He smiles again. He did that several times during the one and half hours I spent in the room.

I would like you to write down your dreams for the next session, Dr. Alfons says before I even have a chance to step closer to the exit, making me freeze in my tracks.

Just one is enough, he encourages me while studying my reaction.

Okay. I’ll try.

Good, see you next Monday, Amber.

Can’t wait.

Nobody in the office asks me why I am late and that’s the way I like it. I’ll need to ask Monday mornings off, permanently, but I don’t think it will be a problem to my boss. Before I can open my PC, I feel an incoming bzzzt of a text message.

Mom: How was therapy? 

I type in the password to my PC before buzzing off a message: Fine. 

Mom: The therapist, what is she like?

See? Even she assumed it was a woman.

I write back: He was nice. Then I open my company mailbox and scroll through the recent emails.

Mom: He? I almost hear her saying it out loud, and I roll my eyes.

I type back: Mom, I’m working.

If I am going to tell anyone about Adriaan, it would be Idy, not my mother, and only if it comes up. Besides, I don’t know yet myself what to make of the man, other than that he is obviously good at his job. What luck.

Sandra comes to my table a few minutes after I get my ArchiCad running. Danique Mansveld called while you weren’t here. She wants to change her design

I groan, Really? What was wrong with it this time?

Said she had a change of heart. Sandra shrugs apologetically. She said she wants you to call as soon as you get to the office.

Oh God, can’t she just send it all in an email? You know I hate talking on the phone.

I do, Sandra laughs, but she doesn’t.

Great, thanks. I’ll make sure to give her a call.

I am looking at my screen a while longer, open the design I made for Mrs. Mansveld, swear a couple of times, wait for the stupid nerves to calm down, and dial the client’s number. This better be good.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

No answer.

Shit. I send her an email instead, hoping to God she replies with her new requirements without trying to call me again. I start working on another design while I wait for her answer.

By the end of the day, I have a headache, and despite having a wrap for lunch, I am starving. I go through the contents of my refrigerator inside my head and curse myself to hell and back for not stocking it up during the weekend. I’ll have to order, because cooking is out of the question. I can barely even think straight at this point.

I have already shut down my computer and am checking if all the windows are closed or if any lost coffee mugs need a trip to the dishwasher when Huub stops next to me.

Our office isn’t very big. On most days, it is just the four of us: me, Sandra, Paul, and Huub. Sometimes, our boss hops in, bringing some pastries and cracking a few jokes, then leaving us to our busy schedules again. Sandra is in charge of the management and usually handles the pickiest clients. The rest of us spend our days drafting and rendering.

Was a long day, huh? Huub asks, and I look at him. He is not horrible to look at, and I always thought he was kind of handsome. Now, comparing him to Adriaan, I start seeing imperfections. Where Adriaan has a suggestion of muscles hiding under his neat pullover, Huub is built more like a stick. A fairly thick, straight stick. He has no fat, but neither does he have much muscle weight. His face is clean shaven, and a sharp jaw protrudes a little too far. One of his blue eyes has specks of light brown in it, and his round nose looks to be slightly crooked if you stare straight at it.

Yeah. Too long, I murmur.

I noticed you coming in late. All good?

I close my eyes. It feels good. For a second, the headache loosens up, and I breathe out in relief.

Amber?

Yeah. I’m fine. When I open my eyes again, I spot Sandra’s coffee cup and walk over to her desk to pick it up. Huub follows me to the small kitchenette and watches while I start the dishwasher.

What'd you think about grabbing some dinner? he asks when I straighten up again. My stomach growls as if on cue. Food sounds amazing, but there is an underlying meaning to his words. He wants me to have that food in his company. I don't think I can hold up my crumbling façade long enough to eat with him. I'm exhausted and just want to be left alone. We could talk? he suggests. You don’t have to go through this alone, Amber.

I ignore his dinner invitation. I am not alone.

Well, not at all times.

Before the accident, Huub had hinted at being interested in me. We even made plans to go out once I got back from my vacation in New York, as he had convinced me to try and see where this could go. I almost fell for it, but I fell off the sky first. Needless to say, nothing ever happened between us. I kept my distance. I am not going to bring someone else down into the mess of my life.

Just dinner then? We don’t have to talk at all, Huub presses, the corners of his mouth teasing with a smile, and I try to form a smile of my own. I think it looks more like a grimace on my face.

I’m tired, I sigh. And my head is killing me. Rain check?

His smile falls, and I feel a little bad. But then I remember waking up with a scream. It’s better this way.

Do you need paracetamol? I can drive you home and we can—

It’s fine, I stop him. I'm fine.

I already took a pill, but it hasn't kicked in yet.

After we put on the alarm and lock the door to the office, Huub walks me to my car, still intent on stealing my time.

What about Wednesday night? he asks me, and I turn to look at him.

I hold back another sigh. What about it?

Dinner? I’ll cook. Something twinkles in his eyes. Hope? If so, I'd crush it and bury it if I was him.

I’m sorry. I already have plans for Wednesday. I don’t even have to lie there; Idy made sure that all of us agreed to catch up.

This weekend then? It doesn’t look like he’ll stop trying unless I agree. Doesn’t have to be dinner, could be lunch as well.

I rub my temples, stalling.

Just think about it, okay? Huub says finally, and I nod, just to make him feel better.

Wednesday morning, I wake up in cold sweat. The time on my phone says 5 a.m., but I know I won’t be able to fall asleep again. I grab my laptop from the nightstand and try to write down my dream, but instead I end up scrolling through my Tumblr feed and Instagram, watching pictures of animals, interior design, and nature until my heartbeat slows down and my breathing returns to normal. I spend two hours wrapped up in my blanket, hoping to find comfort in music and pretty images.

When the clock hits seven, I drag myself to the shower.

Just another bright new day, I say to myself, but it doesn’t do much to cheer me up.

When I stagger into the office kitchen at nine o’clock for my latte, I already feel like a zombie. Huub trails me with his eyes from behind his desk. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me to the coffee machine.

You look like you need something stronger than the latte, Paul comments from his spot when I emerge with my drink, and I stick my tongue out towards him. I know, super mature, but it gets a chuckle out of him.

I can’t stand anything stronger than a latte. Too bitter. I could drink four lattes in a row, though.

I’m sure you could, Paul replies with a smile.

It’s been two days since Danique Mansveld ordered me to change her design. When I open my inbox, I see another email from her. The client is a king, as they say, so whatever other changes she insists on making, I am obliged to comply.

When the lunch break comes, I have been rechanging the simple spa layout for several hours and creating the new furniture models in 3D from a picture Mrs. Mansveld attached to her email, making the design look accurate. I can already feel exhaustion taking over, and my head is getting heavy. I wander into the kitchen two minutes after everybody else but stop in my tracks with a realisation that I forgot to prepare my lunch. I look longingly at a toast Sandra is biting into and walk towards a Knorr cup soup machine to let it spill some tomato mix into my cup.

That's all you’re having? Huub looks up from his chicken salad when I sit across from him at our lunch table.

Looks like it, I mutter, sipping at the soup sullenly. I think I was in a different universe when I left the apartment this morning.

He stops eating, slides his plate across the table towards me, and looks at me sweetly.

What are you doing? That’s yours, I protest.