A story where someone you love is the star.

Marnie practiced the invitation into the mirror. Thirteen versions so far. The glass fogged at the fourth. She wiped it, started again. Next door, the neighbour hung laundry and hummed.

The fog returned, thicker, every morning. By Friday the whole mirror was white. Marnie wrote the question in the mist with one finger. The neighbour, carrying folded sheets, read it through the open window. Marnie opened the door and left it open.

The night shift signed out. Odette stayed under the lamp, saying nothing about Thursday. On her desk sat one candle, unlit, pressed into a slice of cake. Nobody had brought it. The corridor was empty.

The cleaner passed, slowing. She had seen the date on the payroll sheet months ago. She had kept quiet, then had set the plate down anyway. Odette struck the match.

The buyer cut the price again. Third time. Cormac wrote the new number on the slate anyway. Dawn came grey over the market square. Nobody else had unlocked a stall yet.

The buyer waited for him to pack up. The neighbour quietly set her crates beside his, sharing the frontage. Cormac wiped the slate clean. He chalked his old price back on, and turned it to face the square.