When Zara woke the next morning, her first instinct was to call Bertha.
Last night had been… magical. Surreal, even. A date like that deserved a full recap with her best friend—the only person in the world she trusted enough to relive the moment with. She pictured Bertha's dramatic gasp when she heard about the kiss, her smug "I told you so," and the inevitable teasing that would follow.
So she grabbed her phone from the nightstand, tapped her contact list, and called.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then voicemail.
Zara frowned.
That wasn't like Bertha.
Bertha always picked up. Always. And if she didn't, she'd call back within five minutes with some exaggerated excuse like, "Sorry, I was arguing with my stylist about whether gold or rose-gold counts as neutral."
Zara waited. Ten minutes. Then twenty.
She called again.
Still voicemail.
She sent a text: "Berthie? Where are you? Don't ghost me now. I've got tea!"
No response.
