Night to Regret

The Art of Disapointment

-Elizabeth-

I stared at my phone, a mixture of irritation and confusion swirling in my stomach like an unsolvable Rubik's Cube. Zayn's apologetic and straightforward message read, "Hey, I'm sorry, but I have to postpone our dinner tonight. Something came up."

"Something came up?" I scoffed aloud, my voice echoing in the emptiness of my living room. "What a classic."

Was I upset with him? Did I have any right to be? I wrung my hands together, trying to navigate the tangled mess of my emotions. I had spent yesterday dreaming about this dinner, crafting a mental itinerary of our potential moments together. Did I pack too much hope into this? Did I expect it all to go off without a hitch?

With a huff, I collapsed onto my couch, flinging a throw pillow across the room as if it could absorb my frustration. "Great, Elizabeth, just great. How about you make a few more wild assumptions while at it?" I muttered to myself. The worst part was the unmistakable inkling of worry creeping into my head. Had something serious happened? Would he reschedule without so much as a hint or a solid reason? I felt like an unwanted guest at my pity party, the room filled with the echoes of "Why not me?" and "Do I just believe the worst in people?"

Before I could spiral too far into my thoughts, my phone rang. It was Stella—my boss, like a whirlwind of organized chaos—calling at the kind of hour that made my gut churn. I rolled my eyes and answered, knowing it was about work or work-related work.

"Elizabeth! I need your help!" Stella's voice soared through the receiver, her usual frantic energy palpable from two thousand miles away. "I've just come down with a wicked stomach flu, and I can't make it to the meeting with the Neurology Department!"

The Neurology Department. I winced. That was no casual meeting; the last time I'd been in a room with them was during the charity collection we organized the previous year—the one that had left my professional reputation hanging by a thread. It wasn't that the event hadn't been successful; it was merely the aftermath. I was sure some doctors were still frowning at me for mishandling the bidding process for that fancy dinner with Dr. Hawthorne. The man had a two-week-old scowl that I suspected was permanently etched onto his face.

"Stella—" I began, but she powered on like a freight train.

"I need you to step in for me! You know the details, and we must keep things moving. I'm so sorry for the short notice!"

A tidal wave of guilt washed over me at the thought of saying no, but I also felt my irritation flare up again. Here I was, excited for a dinner that had just crashed and burned to a pile of ash, and now I was being roped into a corporate battlefield with doctors who regarded me like an over-caffeinated intern.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it," I finally relented, feeling a burden press down on my shoulders. "But you owe me big time for this."

"Thank you, Elizabeth! You're a lifesaver. Just remember to have the agenda sorted and stay on them about the funding reassessment," she instructed, her voice shifting to that oddly comforting blend of urgency and encouragement that somehow made everything feel possible.

"Right, because clearly, this isn't my weight class," I mumbled, rolling my eyes again.

"Call me after the meeting, please! I need to keep tabs!" She hung up, leaving me with the sound of silence and the sinking knowledge that I hadn't taken the time to put on real pants today.

I glanced at the mirror, and just like that, my frustration morphed into something else. The prospect of facing an army of neurologists in my current attire—an oversized sweatshirt and pajama shorts—was vaguely comical, not to mention utterly horrifying. Yet, as I peered closer and saw my mascara from last night's emotional meltdown smeared under my eyes, a new resolve sparked in me.

With a quick gust of determination blowing through my living room, I flung myself back into the realm of reality. I wouldn't allow Zayn's message to turn my evening into a rehearsed solo act of bitterness. If I had to face an intimidating crew of brain specialists, I would do it on my terms, not wallowing in my living room in despair.

I shuffled to my bedroom, determining that, at the very least, I could make a statement about my discomfort. A bright top with sleeves could distract someone from the fact that I was falling apart internally.

After what felt like a fashion marathon, I finally settled for a tailored blazer over a simple blouse—something that at least conveyed, "I may not have my life together, but I can fake it with style." I completed the look with a dab of lipstick, firmly believing that if I didn't look like chaos, perhaps I wouldn't feel so chaotic either.

Off I went, my mind racing with meeting agendas and potential awkward encounters with people with actual degrees. As I stepped outside, ready to plunge into my new reality, I sighed, a whimsical thought crossing my mind.

Dinner with Zayn may have been the lost opportunity of the evening, but I would reclaim it by shining in this chaotic symphony of life. After all, being a professional with no dinner plans wouldn't stop me from putting my best foot forward, or falling flat on my face while doing an incredible impersonation of a decent human being.

Besides, who knew? Today may be the day I score a round of applause, gratitude from the neurologists, or even a quick phone call from Zayn checking in. Or a chance to kick off my shoes at the end and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Either way, it was time to step out and bring my A-game, even if the possibilities ahead remained as tangled as my emotions.

As I walked into the building, the scent of antiseptic mingled with something surprisingly comforting, like fresh coffee brewing in a quiet corner. I had expected a stark waiting room filled with anxious patients. Still, I found myself in a cozy lounge adorned with soft couches, abstract art on the walls, and groups of people chatting animatedly.

The atmosphere was surprisingly casual for a doctor's meeting. A few doctors wandered between the groups, engaging in conversations that flowed like an easy river. They discussed new treatment methods, the latest innovations in rehabilitation, and the nuances of groundbreaking neurosurgical operations—all wrapped in laughter and lively gestures. It was refreshing to see everyone relaxed, sharing stories and ideas in a way I hadn't anticipated.

As I settled into a chair near the back, taking a moment to observe, my gaze was drawn to a young girl sitting in a wheelchair, her presence lighting up the room. Her short blonde hair framed her face, accentuating her striking blue eyes that sparkled enthusiastically. Her radiant smile that matched her colorful dress drew the attention of patients and doctors alike, creating an aura of warmth around her. Although her legs were positioned forward and unmoving, the way she occasionally shifted her feet suggested determination and a fierce spirit.

Before long, I felt a sudden urge to excuse myself. I stood, feeling the buzz of conversation, and headed toward the restroom, focused on my thoughts about this informal gathering. My mind danced with possibilities and questions about the innovative treatments they were discussing.

Stella didn't give me any context about this meeting, and I started to suspect she had no idea what it should be about, hence her sudden flu. Usually, we talk about organizing patient collections, charity events, or cooperation in financing some valuable equipment, but today, this meeting was a friendly chat. No doctor approached me, even though I wore our foundation's badge. No one was interested in discussing cooperation with me. I would even dare to suggest that I was invisible to anyone.