I arrived ten minutes early, clutching my usual boba milk tea like a safety net. The café smelled of toasted bagels and espresso—same scent, same seat by the window, same quiet hum of weekday chatter. It wasn't a routine meet-up, but I still fell into routine anyway. I needed it. Something to feel steady.
Jessica had called the emergency meeting. And she was late. 1:05. 1:06. 1:11. I tried not to count, but each minute ticked louder than the last.
"Sorry, sorry!" she rushed in—ponytail askew, sunglasses pushed up like a crooked tiara.
I cut her off before she could launch into excuses. "What's the plan?"
She blinked, caught off guard for half a second. Then she leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You need to go for the interview."
I stared. She might as well have told me I'd been drafted for the Olympics.
"What interview?"
"The dating show. Reality TV. They're casting fresh faces—ordinary people with extraordinary potential. You fit."
"Extraordinary potential?" I snorted. "Look at me. I'm tired. I live in oversized sweatshirts. I hide in books and spreadsheets."
"And yet you're here." Her tone softened. "Which means something in you wants change."
I didn't answer.
"Chloe," she said gently, "You say you don't meet anyone. Don't feel seen... This could be something. Even if it's not the one, maybe it's someone. Or maybe it's just… you, finally showing up."
Silence. I sipped my milk tea and let the words settle.
"That's why I made this." She dug into her bag and pulled out a notebook—pages tabbed with sticky notes and color-coded highlighters. "Your makeover manual."
I blinked.
"No. 1," she said, snatching my drink, "No more boba milk tea."
"Heyyy!"
"No. 2: Clean eating. Whole grains. Lean meat. Greens. Simple stuff. Nothing fancy."
"No. 3," she added, tapping the list, "Jogging—every other evening. After work. No excuses."
I raised an eyebrow.
"You need glow. Or at least stamina," she added, matter-of-fact.
I pictured myself dragging sore limbs through the park at 7:30 p.m., dodging cyclists and counting streetlamps instead of stars.
"Why does this sound like you've been planning my transformation for weeks?"
"Because I have," she said. "I knew you'd reach this point. The tipping point."
I didn't know whether to feel touched or terrified.
She continued, "Filming's two months away. That gives us time. No pressure—just progress."
I frowned. "Wait. I haven't even gotten the interview."
"You're going," she said with finality. "That's settled."
And somehow, that week—I did. I showed up for the interview. Nervous. Underdressed. Makeup smudged by anxiety. But the casting team seemed… interested.
Maybe they liked the contrast. Maybe they needed someone ordinary to make the sparkles look shinier.
Or maybe they saw something I couldn't.
And just like that, the routine began. Food swaps. Morning jogs. Reluctant selfies. Makeup tutorials that made me laugh and cringe. Jessica was relentless but gentle—always pushing, never dragging.
Two months of becoming.
And I still don't know how I committed. But I did.
Maybe hope tastes a little like spinach. Or sounds like sneakers hitting pavement. Or maybe it's just Jessica's voice, whispering— "Let's do something… different."