"That's the 'Not-So-Nice' Lucy," Julian whispered. "The one who speaks her mind. The one who takes the promotion in London. The one who stops apologizing for taking up space."
Everything changed on a Tuesday afternoon when Lucy received a package by mistake. It wasn't the ergonomic keyboard she’d ordered. Inside the velvet-lined box was a vintage, leather-bound journal and a heavy brass key with a tag that simply read: The Midnight Gallery. 14 Wickham Lane. A Nice Girl Like You
She leaned over the desk and wrote: Today, I decided to be difficult. "That's the 'Not-So-Nice' Lucy," Julian whispered
He stepped toward a canvas covered in a black sheet and pulled it back. It wasn't a painting; it was a mirror, but the reflection wasn't beige. The Lucy in the glass wore a deep emerald coat. She was laughing. She was standing on a pier in a city Lucy didn’t recognize, holding a ticket to somewhere far beyond Oakhaven. The one who stops apologizing for taking up space
Lucy laughed, the sound brittle in the quiet room. "I don’t do 'versions.' I do spreadsheets. I’m a nice, predictable girl."
Lucy gripped the pen. She thought of her boss, who took credit for her work. She thought of her mother, who insisted she marry the local dentist. She thought of the beige walls of her apartment.