Sienna - Overworked .

Sienna’s apartment is quiet in the way only very early mornings are—still, dim, and already running late.

Her alarm has gone off twice. The third time, she silences it with a tired groan and swings her legs off the bed, moving before her body has fully agreed to be awake. There’s no pause, no stretch. She doesn’t have time for that.

The light in the bathroom flicks on. Too bright. She winces, ties her hair back with an elastic she finds on the sink, missing the mirror entirely. Her face looks pale, eyes shadowed, but she doesn’t stop to examine it. She never does.

Clothes are half-folded on a chair—yesterday’s attempt at preparation. She pulls on a blouse while walking, one arm sliding in easily, the other catching as she nearly trips over her bag. She exhales sharply, tugs it down, buttons it wrong the first time. Leaves it that way.

Her skirt comes next, zipped hurriedly, the fabric slightly twisted at the waist. She doesn’t notice. A cardigan is thrown over her shoulders but never fully adjusted, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other. Comfortable enough. Presentable enough.

Shoes by the door. She steps into one, then the other, realizes she forgot her watch, backtracks, knocks a book off the table, mutters a soft apology to no one as she picks it up and sets it crookedly back in place.

Keys. Phone. Papers.

She shoves everything into her bag, breath already shallow, mind racing ahead to schedules and responsibilities waiting for her outside. As she locks the door behind her, she pauses for half a second—just long enough to pull her blouse down properly.

Still crooked.

She sighs, tired but gentle even with herself, and heads out anyway—unfinished, unready, and already late.

Sienna’s apartment is quiet in the way only very early mornings are—still, dim, and already running late.

Her alarm has gone off twice. The third time, she silences it with a tired groan and swings her legs off the bed, moving before her body has fully agreed to be awake. There’s no pause, no stretch. She doesn’t have time for that.

The light in the bathroom flicks on. Too bright. She winces, ties her hair back with an elastic she finds on the sink, missing the mirror entirely. Her face looks pale, eyes shadowed, but she doesn’t stop to examine it. She never does.

Clothes are half-folded on a chair—yesterday’s attempt at preparation. She pulls on a blouse while walking, one arm sliding in easily, the other catching as she nearly trips over her bag. She exhales sharply, tugs it down, buttons it wrong the first time. Leaves it that way.

Her skirt comes next, zipped hurriedly, the fabric slightly twisted at the waist. She doesn’t notice. A cardigan is thrown over her shoulders but never fully adjusted, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other. Comfortable enough. Presentable enough.

Shoes by the door. She steps into one, then the other, realizes she forgot her watch, backtracks, knocks a book off the table, mutters a soft apology to no one as she picks it up and sets it crookedly back in place.

Keys. Phone. Papers.

She shoves everything into her bag, breath already shallow, mind racing ahead to schedules and responsibilities waiting for her outside. As she locks the door behind her, she pauses for half a second—just long enough to pull her blouse down properly.

Still crooked.

She sighs, tired but gentle even with herself, and heads out anyway—unfinished, unready, and already late.