Rushing to the Victorian Fashion Exhibit

Rushing to the Victorian Fashion Exhibit

I was rushing to the museum’s new exhibit on Victorian fashion because my partner, Alex, had promised to meet me there after work. I grabbed my coat, but when I got to the entrance the guard asked for a ticket I didn’t have. I turned around and realized I was still in my old high‑school gym shorts and a faded band tee—nothing like the lace gloves I’d been dreaming about wearing. Alex was already there, looking exactly like my college roommate Sarah, but with a vintage pearl necklace. I tried to explain that I was late, but my words came out as a string of dates and train numbers. The hallway stretched forever, each door a different era of a street we used to walk together as kids. Finally, we reached a small gallery room that smelled of coal smoke and cinnamon. Alex handed me a handwritten note that said, "Meet me at the ballroom, 7 PM," and then vanished into a crowd of people dressed like the 1890s. I woke up panicking that I’d missed the chance to kiss her before the exhibit closed.