BERYL'S MORNING ROUTINE

MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 3: Beryl's Morning Routine

---

**BERYL**

My alarm goes off at 5:47 AM.

Not 5:45, because that feels too rounded, too deliberate. Not 5:50, because those extra three minutes matter. 5:47 is specific enough to feel intentional but arbitrary enough to remind me that life doesn't operate on neat intervals.

I've been setting my alarm for 5:47 since I was sixteen. It's one of those habits that started for a reason I've long since forgotten but persists out of sheer stubbornness.

The first thing I do when I wake up is not check my phone. This is a conscious choice—a small act of rebellion against the digital addiction that has claimed everyone I know. Instead, I lie still for exactly sixty seconds, eyes closed, breathing deeply, orienting myself to consciousness.

*You are Beryl Okonkwo. You are twenty-two years old. You are alive, and today is a new day, and whatever happened yesterday is over.*

It's a little ritual, a grounding exercise. My therapist recommended it years ago, during that rough patch in high school when anxiety had me in a chokehold. I've kept it up ever since, even on mornings when I don't feel like I need it.

Today, I definitely need it.

Because yesterday, I told Asenath I was in love with her.

The memory hits me like a splash of cold water—the conference room, the tears, the words I'd kept locked away for seven years finally spilling out of me like water through a broken dam. Her face, shocked and uncertain. Her hands, warm around mine. Her voice, saying words I never expected to hear.

*I don't know. I've never thought about you that way.*

*But that doesn't mean I couldn't.*

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. She hadn't rejected me. She hadn't run away. She'd asked for time, which wasn't a yes but also wasn't a no. After seven years of silent longing, I could handle a little more uncertainty.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

My sixty seconds are up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and begin my routine.

---

The thing about routines is that they're comforting precisely because they're predictable. Every morning follows the same pattern, the same sequence of actions, the same small rituals that transform chaos into order.

5:48: Bathroom. Shower—exactly seven minutes, because any longer feels indulgent and any shorter doesn't get the job done. I use the lavender body wash that Asenath always says smells nice, the shampoo that keeps my locs healthy, the face cleanser that took me three years to find.

5:55: Skincare. Toner, serum, moisturizer. I used to think this was excessive until I hit twenty and my skin started staging rebellions. Now it's non-negotiable.

6:00: Hair. My locs are low-maintenance by design—I learned early that anything requiring daily styling was incompatible with my need for efficiency. Most mornings, I just pull them back into a neat ponytail. Today, I take a few extra minutes to arrange them properly, which probably says something about my subconscious state that I'm not ready to examine.

6:10: Clothes. I lay out my outfits the night before, organized by day of the week, which Asenath thinks is "adorably neurotic" but which saves me approximately fifteen minutes of decision fatigue per morning. Today is Wednesday, which means the olive green blouse and the tan trousers. Professional but not boring. Approachable but not informal.

6:25: Breakfast. This is where I allow myself some flexibility. Sometimes it's overnight oats, prepared the night before and waiting in the fridge. Sometimes it's eggs and toast if I'm feeling fancy. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—it's whatever's leftover in the fridge that vaguely constitutes nutrition.

Today, I'm not hungry. My stomach is a knot of nerves that has no interest in food. I force down a banana and some water anyway, because skipping meals is a slippery slope I learned about the hard way.

6:40: Final preparations. Bag packed, keys located, phone checked for anything urgent. This is when I usually send Asenath my good morning text—a habit that started so long ago I can't remember its origin, just that it feels wrong not to do it.

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over her name.

What do I even say? "Good morning, hope you slept well after I dropped a seven-year love confession on you"? "Hey, just casually checking in like everything's normal when literally nothing is normal"?

In the end, I type what I always type:

**Me:** *good morning sunshine ☀️ coffee before work?*

Her response comes faster than I expected.

**Asenath:** *definitely. usual spot?*

**Me:** *see you at 8:15*

**Asenath:** *you mean 8:30*

**Me:** *you know me so well*

I smile despite myself. This is good. This is normal. Whatever else has changed, we still have this—the easy banter, the rhythm of fifteen years of friendship.

But even as I think it, I know it's not quite true. Something has shifted. The air between us has a new charge, a tension that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there, and now we're both just aware of it.

I put my phone away and head out the door.

---

The coffee shop is busy when I arrive—the morning rush of people grabbing caffeine before their commutes, the scattered freelancers setting up camp for the day. I secure our usual table and order our usual drinks, my body moving through the familiar motions while my mind races elsewhere.

I keep replaying yesterday. Not just the confession, but everything after. The way Asenath had looked at me when she said I wasn't just an option. The way her head had rested against my shoulder in the meeting room, comfortable and trusting.

And then there's the part I can't stop thinking about: her lunch with Kiyan.

I know she said it wasn't romantic. I know she said it was about closure. But I also know Asenath—know how she gets around him, how her whole energy shifts when he's in the room. She might not realize it, but there's still something there. Some unfinished business that lunch conversations and clean slates won't fully resolve.

I should be jealous. Maybe I am jealous—there's definitely something ugly and green lurking in the pit of my stomach. But mostly, I'm scared. Scared that after seven years of waiting, after finally having the courage to say something, I'm going to lose her to the same person who hurt her before.

The bell over the door chimes, and there she is.

Asenath always enters a room like she's not aware of how people look at her—the casual confidence, the natural grace, the way attention just gravitates toward her without her trying. She's wearing a deep blue dress today that makes her skin glow, her hair loose around her shoulders in the waves I've always loved.

She spots me and smiles, and my heart does that thing it's been doing for seven years. That painful, wonderful squeeze that reminds me why I'm putting myself through all of this.

"You're early," she says, sliding into the seat across from me.

"You're on time. A miracle."

"Don't get used to it. I think I'm still running on adrenaline from yesterday." She wraps her hands around the coffee I ordered for her, breathing in the steam. "How are you doing? After... everything?"

The question is loaded with meaning, both of us acutely aware of what "everything" encompasses.

"I'm okay," I say. "A little terrified. A lot uncertain. But okay."

"Terrified of what?"

"Of having changed things between us. Of making things awkward." I pause, staring into my own cup. "Of you looking at me differently now."

"Beryl." She reaches across the table and takes my hand. It's such a simple gesture, one she's done a thousand times before, but now it feels charged with new significance. "I don't look at you differently. I look at you the same way I always have. I just... understand it better now."

"What does that mean?"

She's quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. "It means that when I think about you—which is a lot, by the way—I'm not just thinking 'oh, there's my best friend.' I'm thinking about what you told me. About what it means. About what it might mean for us."

My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure she can hear it. "And what have you concluded?"

"Nothing yet. I told you, I need time." But she's smiling, soft and uncertain and somehow hopeful. "What I do know is that I don't want to lose you. Whatever else happens, that's non-negotiable."

"You won't lose me. I promise."

"Same goes for you."

We sit there for a moment, hands linked across the table, the morning light streaming through the window and catching the highlights in her hair. If this were a movie, this would be the part where one of us leans in, where the tension finally breaks into something tangible.

But it's not a movie. It's real life, messy and complicated and full of uncertainties.

So instead, we drink our coffee, and we talk about work, and we carefully navigate around the elephant in the room. And somehow, impossibly, it feels okay. Different, but okay.

Baby steps.

---

The walk to the office is quiet but not uncomfortable. We fall into step beside each other naturally, the rhythm of years of friendship guiding our movements. Every now and then, our shoulders brush, and every time they do, I feel it like an electric shock.

"So," Asenath says as we approach the building, "how are we playing this at work? Should we act normal? Should we—"

"Normal," I say quickly. "Definitely normal. The last thing either of us needs is the office gossip mill getting wind of... whatever this is."

"Agreed. Normal. Professional." She pauses at the door, turning to look at me. "But maybe we can get lunch together? Just the two of us?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. Too forward, too presumptuous, too—

"Maybe," she says, and my brain short-circuits.

"Maybe?"

"I don't know what I'm doing, Beryl. I'm figuring this out as I go." She looks almost nervous, which is not an expression I'm used to seeing on her. "But having lunch with you sounds nice. And I want to spend time with you. And if that's a date, then... maybe it's a date."

I don't know what to say. Seven years of longing, and now she's standing here, looking at me like I'm something precious, saying maybe to things I never thought she'd consider.

"Lunch sounds great," I manage. "It's a date. Or a maybe-date. Or whatever you want to call it."

She laughs, and the tension breaks. "God, we're both disasters at this."

"Complete disasters. But at least we're disasters together."

We walk into the office side by side, and I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. Something that might be hope.

---

The morning passes in a blur of meetings and emails and the general chaos of agency life. I try to focus on work—there's a social media strategy to finalize, a client call to prepare for, a dozen small tasks that require my attention—but my mind keeps drifting to Asenath.

She's across the room, visible through the glass walls of the conference room where she's presenting something to Priya. I watch her gesture animatedly, her whole body engaged in whatever point she's making. Even from this distance, I can see the spark in her eyes, the passion she brings to everything she does.

This is the woman I've loved for seven years. The woman who might—possibly, potentially, maybe—be learning to love me back.

It still doesn't feel real.

"You're staring."

I jump, nearly knocking over my coffee. Marcus is standing beside my desk, an amused expression on his face.

"I'm not staring. I'm... observing the meeting. For professional reasons."

"Uh-huh. Is that why you've been watching the conference room for the past fifteen minutes without blinking?"

"I blinked. Several times."

"Beryl." He lowers his voice, leaning closer. "Everyone knows."

My blood runs cold. "Knows what?"

"That you and Asenath are..." He makes a vague gesture. "You know."

"We're not anything. We're friends. Best friends. Very normal, very platonic best friends."

"Sure. And I'm the Queen of England." He straightens up, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be cute together. The whole office is rooting for you."

"The whole—" I sputter. "There's nothing to root for! We're not—I don't—"

But he's already walking away, leaving me to contemplate exactly how transparent I've been for the past however-many-years.

The whole office is rooting for us.

Jesus Christ.

I bury my face in my hands and try to remember how to breathe.

---

Lunch arrives eventually, as lunches do. I spend the last hour before it obsessively checking my reflection in my phone camera, adjusting my hair, wondering if I should have worn something different. This is ridiculous—it's just lunch, the same lunch we've had hundreds of times before—but it feels different now. Weighted with possibility.

Asenath appears at my desk at exactly 12:30, which is practically a miracle for someone with her relationship to punctuality.

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

We end up at a little sandwich shop a few blocks away—far enough from the office to avoid colleagues, close enough that we're not wasting our entire lunch hour on the commute. It's a place we've been to before, nothing special, but today everything feels significant. The way the light hits the table. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The way she looks at me like she's really seeing me for the first time.

"So," she says, once we're settled with our food. "A maybe-date."

"A maybe-date," I confirm. "No pressure. Just two people who may or may not be on a date eating sandwiches together."

"Very romantic."

"I try."

She laughs, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders. This is still us—still easy, still comfortable. Whatever else is happening, we haven't lost that.

"Can I ask you something?" she says, growing more serious.

"Anything."

"When you realized... that you had feelings for me. How did you know? Like, what did it feel like?"

I consider the question carefully. It's not something I've ever had to articulate before—the feelings have just been there, constant and unchanging, like gravity.

"It wasn't one moment," I say slowly. "It was more like... a gradual awareness. Like waking up slowly instead of all at once." I pause, searching for the right words. "There was this day at the beach—I told you about it yesterday. We were looking at stars, and you were making up stories, and I just... knew. But when I look back, I can see all the signs before that. The way I always wanted to be near you. The way my heart raced when you smiled at me. The way everyone else just seemed less interesting by comparison."

Asenath is listening intently, her sandwich forgotten.

"I tried to tell myself it was just friendship," I continue. "That best friends feel like this about each other. But deep down, I knew it was more. I knew because I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. Not just as my friend—as my person. The person I wanted to wake up to and fall asleep with and build a future with."

"That's..." She swallows, her eyes bright. "That's a lot."

"I know. I'm sorry if it's overwhelming."

"Don't apologize." She reaches across the table and takes my hand again. It's becoming a habit, this hand-holding. I'm not complaining. "I asked because I'm trying to understand. To figure out what I feel."

"And what do you feel?"

She's quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing patterns on my palm.

"When I'm with you, I feel safe," she says finally. "Like nothing bad can happen as long as you're there. I feel happy—genuinely happy, not the performative kind I do for everyone else. I feel like I can be completely myself without worrying about what you'll think."

My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest.

"But I've always felt that way," she continues. "Since we were kids. And I never thought of it as... romantic. I thought it was just what best friendship felt like."

"It can be both," I say softly. "Love and friendship aren't mutually exclusive."

"I know. I'm starting to realize that." She looks at me, really looks at me, with an intensity that makes me want to look away and never look away at the same time. "When I think about you with someone else—dating someone, being in a relationship—I feel this... twist. Like something's wrong. Like that's not how it's supposed to be."

"And when you think about me with you?"

She doesn't answer right away. The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.

"It feels right," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "It feels like something clicking into place. Like an answer I didn't know I was looking for."

I don't know who moves first—maybe both of us, maybe neither—but suddenly we're leaning across the table, our faces inches apart. I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the slight tremble in her lower lip, the way her breath catches in her throat.

"Beryl..." she whispers.

"Yes?"

"I think... I think I want to kiss you."

The world stops. Time freezes. Every nerve in my body is screaming.

"Then kiss me," I say.

And she does.

It's soft at first—tentative, uncertain, both of us testing the waters. Her lips are warm against mine, tasting of the coffee she had earlier and something sweeter underneath. My hand comes up to cup her cheek, and I feel her lean into the touch, a small sound escaping her throat.

Then it deepens.

Seven years of longing, seven years of wanting, seven years of loving her from a distance—all of it pours into this moment. She kisses me like she's discovering something new, like she's finally understanding something she should have known all along. And I kiss her back with everything I have, with all the words I never said and all the feelings I kept hidden.

When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, stunned, like she can't quite believe what just happened.

"Wow," she says.

"Yeah," I agree. "Wow."

"That was..."

"Yeah."

She starts laughing—not nervously, but with genuine joy, the kind of laughter that comes from the release of long-held tension. I find myself laughing too, giddy and overwhelmed and happier than I've been in years.

"I just kissed my best friend," she says. "In a sandwich shop. At lunch."

"You did. Was it... okay?"

She looks at me like I've just asked the stupidest question in the history of questions.

"It was more than okay. It was..." She shakes her head, still smiling. "I need to process this. All of it. But yes, Beryl—it was definitely okay."

I don't know what this means for us going forward. I don't know if she's ready for a relationship, or if this was just curiosity, or if we're about to complicate our friendship beyond repair. But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

Right now, she kissed me. And it was okay. More than okay.

That's enough.

---

We walk back to the office in a daze, both of us replaying what just happened, neither of us quite able to look at the other without dissolving into incredulous laughter.

"We should probably..." Asenath starts.

"Not tell anyone yet?" I finish.

"Exactly. Just until we figure out what this is."

"Agreed. Complete discretion."

We pause at the office door, composing ourselves. Professional faces. Normal colleagues. Nothing to see here.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Ready."

We walk in, maintaining a respectable distance, our expressions carefully neutral. I make it approximately three steps before Priya appears in front of us.

"There you are. Kiyan's been asking for you, Asenath—apparently there's some issue with the launch timeline that he needs to discuss urgently." She barely glances at me before adding, "And Beryl, you have a client call in ten minutes."

"Right. Client call. On it."

We split up, heading to our respective responsibilities, but not before Asenath catches my eye and smiles. A small smile, private and secret, just for me.

I carry that smile with me for the rest of the afternoon.

---

The client call goes fine—or at least, I assume it does. To be honest, I'm operating on autopilot, saying the right words and making the right noises while my brain replays that kiss on an endless loop.

She kissed me.

Asenath Mensah kissed me.

In a sandwich shop, over mediocre turkey clubs, she leaned across the table and pressed her lips to mine and the world rearranged itself into something new.

I'm so distracted that I almost miss the email that arrives at 3:47 PM. It's from an internal address—a calendar invite for a meeting at 4:00, titled simply "Catch-up."

The organizer is Kiyan Sharma.

I stare at it for a long moment, trying to figure out why Kiyan would want to meet with me. We've barely interacted since he arrived—our roles don't overlap significantly, and I've been deliberately avoiding him for reasons that are probably obvious to everyone except him.

Maybe it's about the Nexus project. Maybe he needs information I have. Maybe it's completely innocent and I'm being paranoid.

Or maybe he wants to talk about Asenath.

I accept the invite, because refusing would be more suspicious than agreeing, and spend the next thirteen minutes alternating between dread and annoyance.

At 4:00 exactly, I make my way to the small conference room—the same one where I'd confessed my feelings to Asenath just yesterday, which feels like a cruel joke from the universe. Kiyan is already there, looking infuriatingly composed in his expensive suit, his expression unreadable.

"Beryl. Thanks for meeting with me."

"Did I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."

I sit, keeping my posture rigid and my expression neutral. Whatever this is, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

"I'll cut to the chase," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about Asenath."

Of course he did.

"What about her?"

"You're protective of her. That's obvious. And given what I did in high school, you have every reason to distrust me." He folds his hands on the table, his gaze steady. "But I want you to know that my intentions are good. I'm not here to hurt her again."

"With all due respect, Kiyan, I don't care about your intentions. I care about your actions. And your actions five years ago destroyed her."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you really understand what she went through? The rumors, the humiliation, the way people looked at her like she was a joke?" My voice is rising, despite my best efforts to stay calm. "She didn't date anyone for three years. She couldn't trust anyone. She flinched every time someone got too close."

"And you were there for her." It's not a question.

"Someone had to be."

He nods slowly, something shifting in his expression. "You love her."

It's not a question either, and I'm too tired of hiding to deny it.

"Yes. I love her. I've loved her for seven years, and I've watched her carry the weight of what you did for just as long." I lean forward, my eyes locked on his. "So whatever you're planning—whatever scheme you have to win her back—know that I will do everything in my power to protect her. From you or anyone else."

I expect him to argue. To defend himself, to get angry, to push back.

Instead, he smiles. A sad, rueful smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good," he says.

"Good?"

"Good that she has someone looking out for her. Good that she's not alone." He leans back in his chair. "I told Asenath I've changed, and I meant it. But I also know that words aren't enough—that I have to prove it through my actions. Part of that proof is accepting that she might not choose me. That she might choose someone else."

"Someone like me."

"Someone exactly like you." He pauses, considering his words. "I saw you two this morning. Arriving together. The way you looked at each other." He shakes his head. "I'd have to be blind not to see it."

I don't know what to say. I hadn't realized we'd been that obvious—although apparently, according to Marcus, the whole office already knew.

"I'm not going to lie and say I don't want her," Kiyan continues. "But I want her to be happy more than I want her to be with me. And if you're what makes her happy..." He spreads his hands. "Then I'll step back. Gracefully."

"You'd really do that?"

"I told you I've changed. This is me proving it."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling over us. I came into this meeting expecting a confrontation, maybe even a fight. Instead, I got... this. A rival backing down. A former enemy extending an olive branch.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For being honest."

"Thank you for loving her when I was too stupid to." He stands, buttoning his jacket. "She's lucky to have you, Beryl. I hope she realizes it."

"She's starting to."

"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses, turning back. "For what it's worth—I'm rooting for you. Both of you."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the strange, disorienting feeling that the world has just shifted in a way I didn't expect.

---

I find Asenath at her desk an hour later, staring at her computer screen with the glazed expression of someone who stopped actually working some time ago.

"Hey."

She looks up, and her face transforms—the weariness lifting, replaced by something warm and private. "Hey yourself. How was the client call?"

"Fine. Boring." I glance around, making sure no one's within earshot. "Kiyan asked to meet with me."

Her expression sharpens. "What did he want?"

"To talk about you, surprisingly. He basically gave me his blessing."

"His *blessing*?"

"Told me he could see there was something between us and that he'd step back if you chose me." I shake my head, still not entirely believing the conversation happened. "I think he might actually have changed. Or he's an even better liar than I thought."

Asenath is quiet for a moment, processing. "That's... unexpected."

"Tell me about it."

"How do you feel about it?"

I consider the question. "Confused, mostly. Part of me wants to stay suspicious—he hurt you, and I don't forget that easily. But another part of me thinks... maybe people really can change. Maybe everyone deserves a second chance."

"Even him?"

"I don't know. That's not my call to make." I look at her, really look at her. "That's yours."

She's silent for a long moment, her gaze distant. Then she stands, gathering her things.

"Walk me home?"

"It's 5:30. The day's not over yet."

"I know. But I've done approximately zero productive work since lunch, and I think Priya would forgive me if I ducked out early. Just this once."

I shouldn't. I have things to do—emails to send, reports to file, responsibilities that don't disappear just because my personal life is a mess. But she's looking at me with those eyes, the ones I've never been able to say no to, and the word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"Okay."

We leave the office together, side by side, walking into the late afternoon sun. Neither of us speaks for the first few blocks—we don't need to. The silence is comfortable, companionable, the silence of two people who know each other well enough to exist together without filling every moment with words.

"Beryl?" she says eventually.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you told me. How you feel, I mean. I know it took courage, and I know you were scared. But I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

"And the kiss..." She trails off, her cheeks flushing slightly. "That was really nice. Can we... do that again sometime?"

I laugh, surprised and delighted. "Sometime? Like, specifically?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." She's smiling now, that embarrassed, pleased smile that makes my heart flip. "I'm making this weird, aren't I?"

"You're making it perfect."

We stop at a corner, waiting for the light to change. And because I can—because she's given me permission, because the world feels different now—I reach out and take her hand.

She doesn't pull away.

"This is nice," she says softly.

"Yeah. It is."

The light changes. We walk on, hand in hand, into whatever comes next.

---

**End of Chapter 3**

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