Every day begins before dawn – a typical vexation of office life. A shrill alarm pierces the quiet veil of the night.
Yet, when you flutter your sleepy eyes open, there she is – Diana, Princess of Wales, ensnared around you like an affectionate koala to its tree; her arms coiled tightly around your neck, legs snaking around your waist.
Her cherubic face awash with serenity lies imprinted on your shoulder.
You brush your fingers lightly through her golden hair, feeling a smile tickle your lips.
This is not routine, it's a wholesome ritual. "Time to get up, love," you whisper, shattering the shared silence.
"No," Diana mumbles, tightening her hold on you like an anxious child on a safety blanket. Her clinginess has always been endearing but lately, it's magnified.
Anywhere you go, Diana's three steps behind, close enough to be caught in your shadow, close enough to latch onto you at will.
You manage to wrestle your way out of the covers, sheer determination your only tool against the royal clinginess.
Diana stubbornly remains perched on you, however, like a most delicate parasite, a charming tattoo etched in love and draped in pure silk.
As the forks of dawn pry open the darkness, both of you are maneuvering your way down the narrow steps of the loft, into the kitchen and out the front door, Diana still riding piggyback.
She snuggles closer when you unlock your car, and wiggles her way into your lap when you slide in behind the wheel. Driving to work has never felt so awkward, nor so warm.
The day drags on, filled with the mundane chatter of an office, palliated by Diana's presence.
Your colleagues raise eyebrows at the sight of a royal princess clinging to you as you shuffle through files, make coffee, or take calls, her arms never leaving their favorite perch – your neck.
"Diana, my love, you're always clingy," you chuckle during lunch break, trapping her searching fingers in your own.
"But today..."
"I know," Diana says, her doe-eyed gaze darkening
. "It's too much... isn't it?" "No," you tell her, desiring to be her sanctuary
. "Don't you dare apologize. I understand, Diana. I promise."
The office, normally home to idle gossip and the scent of stale coffee, suddenly feels intimate, cloaked in understanding and mutual reverence.
Even the cold white walls seem cozier, almost welcoming.
You recount tales from your past, a thinly veiled attempt to assure her that you too grappled with a want of love.
The day's weight gradually lifts, retreating with the sun meekly bidding farewell to the skyline. On the way home, you take a moment to admire the view in the rearview mirror.
The twinkling eyes of Diana's cherubs - your princes - meet yours, their shared glee warming your heart.
Their smiles are brighter - hopeful signs of their increasing acceptance of you, newfound warmth in their frosty royal world.
They give an approving nod, a quiet thank you born from their joy at seeing their mother, their only anchor in a torrential sea, truly happy.
Home is a humble sanctuary of just 400 square feet. It's no palace, no sprawling mansion, yet it's the world – your little world compacted and stuffed with affection.
Nestled in the shelter of the boys' excited chatter, both of you retreat to the familiar warmth of your shared loft, Diana taking her place, once again, draped over you
. "It's cozier than the palace," she murmurs, her lips dusting your cheek with a soft peck. "Cozier than anywhere I've been..."
You cuddle her closer
"I love you, Diana. I love you so much."
