Sundays Without Makeup: Ep3 – The Ignite Boundaries Between Worlds Begin to Blur

Sundays Without Makeup: Ep3 – The Ignite Boundaries Between Worlds Begin to Blur
When we create separate versions of ourselves, we rarely consider what happens when they inevitably collide.

The Tipping Point of Two Realities

Monday came with its usual demands. Meetings. Calls. Decisions that affected quarterly projections and year-end bonuses. Caroline slipped back into her armor with practiced ease—the silk blouse buttoned to the throat, the tailored blazer that squared her shoulders, the heels that added authority to her stride.

But something had changed.

It wasn’t visible. Not to her assistant who handed her the day’s schedule. Not to her team who presented the latest market analysis. Not even to the board members who nodded with approval as she outlined the strategy for deflecting Meridian Capital’s persistent acquisition attempts.

The change was internal. A hairline crack in the perfect division she’d maintained between Sunday Caroline and Monday Caroline. A small but persistent awareness that the woman who wandered bare-faced through bookstores and the woman who commanded boardrooms were not, in fact, separate entities.

They were both her.

The 8 AM meeting with Eric Whitman’s team proceeded with professional precision. Proposals. Counter-proposals. The careful dance of corporate negotiation.

Eric himself was exactly as she remembered from their previous professional encounters—confident, strategic, with that particular quality successful men cultivate that suggests they’re always holding something in reserve.

If Sunday had affected him, he showed no sign. His eyes met hers across the conference table with nothing more than appropriate professional interest.

It should have been a relief. Confirmation that the boundaries between their worlds remained intact.

Instead, she felt a surprising flicker of disappointment.

“Ms. Mitchell,” he said as the meeting concluded, extending his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Mr. Whitman,” she replied, her grip firm and brief. Perfect in its corporate choreography.

But as their hands touched, she could have sworn something shifted in his eyes. The slightest acknowledgment. A momentary dropping of the mask.

Then it was gone, and he was walking away, surrounded by his team, every inch the CMO of Meridian Capital.

Caroline returned to her office, closed the door, and stood for a moment with her back against it. Heart beating slightly faster than the situation warranted.

The two versions of herself—Sunday and Monday—had just occupied the same space for the first time.

And the universe hadn’t collapsed.

The Decision That Isn’t Really a Choice

She didn’t plan to return to the same café the following Sunday.

In fact, she’d researched alternatives in neighborhoods far from her usual haunts. Had even mapped a walking route to a promising spot in the West Village.

Yet somehow, at 9:17 AM, she found herself approaching the familiar corner. Telling herself it was simply because she liked their coffee. Their quiet Sunday atmosphere. The way the light fell through their windows.

Not because of the possibility that Eric might be there too.

She hesitated outside, suddenly uncertain. Her Sunday self was still new. Fragile. Easily overwhelmed by the stronger currents of her weekday identity.

Bringing Eric into these precious hours felt dangerous—like inviting a witness to a transformation she didn’t yet understand herself.

As she stood there, caught in indecision, a voice spoke from behind her.

“The coffee’s not going to drink itself.”

She turned to find Eric watching her, amusement in his eyes. He was dressed as casually as before—jeans, a faded sweatshirt, running shoes that had seen better days. A weekend version of himself that seemed both foreign and strangely familiar.

“I was deciding whether to try somewhere new,” she said, more honestly than she intended.

“And?”

She looked at him, at the café, back at him.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He nodded, seeming to understand the weight of the choice she was making.

“Well,” he said, “while you decide, would you care to walk? There’s a farmers’ market two blocks over that’s worth seeing, even if you don’t buy anything.”

The invitation was perfect in its casualness. A way forward that neither presumed nor demanded.

“I’d like that,” she said, surprising herself again with how easily the truth came when she wasn’t trying to calculate its impact.

They fell into step beside each other, moving through the Sunday morning crowd with the slightly awkward awareness of people who know each other in one context attempting to navigate another.

“How did the board respond to our latest offer?” he asked after a moment.

“Seriously?” she replied, eyebrows raised. “That’s your opening?”

He laughed, the sound surprisingly boyish.

“Force of habit,” he admitted. “Monday through Friday, that’s pretty much all I think about.”

“And on Sundays?”

He considered this, hands in his pockets, gaze on the sidewalk ahead.

“On Sundays, I try not to think at all,” he said finally. “At least, not in the same way.”

She understood this perfectly. The need for a different mode of being. A different rhythm of thought.

“What about you?” he asked. “What does Caroline Mitchell think about on Sundays?”

It was a simple question, yet it caught her off guard. Because until six weeks ago, Sunday Caroline hadn’t existed as someone separate from the rest of her week. She’d been answering emails, reviewing reports, planning Monday’s meetings—just in more comfortable clothes.

“I think about who I might have been,” she said, the words emerging from some honest place she rarely accessed. “If I hadn’t become who I am.”

He glanced at her, something like recognition in his eyes.

“And who might you have been?”

She shook her head slightly.

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

They reached the farmers’ market—a vibrant cluster of stalls selling everything from organic vegetables to handmade soaps. People moved between the displays with unhurried Sunday energy, examining tomatoes, sampling cheeses, debating the merits of different honey varieties.

“What would Monday Caroline do here?” Eric asked as they paused at the edge of the market.

She considered this, watching a young couple debate the ripeness of avocados.

“She wouldn’t be here at all,” she said. “She’d have Instacart deliver pre-selected groceries to her doorman while she finished quarterly projections.”

“Efficient,” he noted.

“Always.” There was a hint of something like regret in her voice.

“And Sunday Caroline?”

A small smile touched her lips.

“She’d wander without a plan. Buy something impractical. Perhaps strike up a conversation with a stranger.”

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the market.

And so they did. Moved from stall to stall without agenda. Sampled artisanal cheeses and debated the merits of different apple varieties. Watched a street performer juggle flaming torches with surprising dexterity.

Caroline felt herself relaxing by degrees. Felt the weekday version of herself—the one constantly calculating, constantly performing—recede just a little further.

Until they reached a stall selling handmade ceramics, and she saw it.

A small mirror in a simple wooden frame. Not ornate like the one in the bookstore, but something about it caught her attention. Drew her closer.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Eric observed, noticing her interest.

“Yes,” she agreed, lifting it carefully. The weight of it felt satisfying in her hand. Substantial. Real.

She looked into it, half-expecting some dramatic revelation like the one in the bookstore. But her reflection was just… her reflection. Clear-eyed. Unmasked. Present.

“I’ll take this,” she told the artisan, who wrapped it carefully in brown paper.

As they continued through the market, Eric asked, “Why that particular mirror?”

It was a good question. One she wasn’t entirely sure she could answer.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I need to practice seeing myself. The real self, not the one I’ve constructed for others to see.”

He nodded, as though this made perfect sense.

“And where will you put it?” he asked.

“Not in the bathroom,” she said immediately. “Not where I apply makeup or fix my hair. Somewhere unexpected. Somewhere I’ll encounter myself without preparation.”

“By your front door,” he suggested. “The last thing you see before you leave. The first thing when you return.”

The suggestion felt right—a threshold guardian between her worlds.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Exactly there.”

How a Conversation Could Change Everything

They ended up at a different café—smaller, tucked away on a side street, with mismatched furniture and jazz playing softly in the background. The kind of place that would never appear in corporate lunch discussions but somehow felt exactly right for this in-between moment.

“Can I ask you something potentially inappropriate?” Eric said after they’d settled with their coffees.

“You can ask,” she replied, curious rather than guarded.

“Why does Meridian make you so nervous?”

The question caught her completely off guard. Not because it was inappropriate, but because it cut straight to something she hadn’t admitted even to herself.

“What makes you think they do?” she deflected, buying time.

“The way your left hand tenses during negotiations. The slight adjustment in your posture when our CEO enters the room. The fact that your counter-offers have all been strategically designed to extend the process rather than resolve it.” He shrugged slightly. “I’ve been watching you across negotiation tables for months. I notice things.”

Caroline considered denying it. Considered the professional wisdom of admitting anything that might be used against her company’s interests.

But this was Sunday. And on Sundays, she was trying something new: truth.

“Because they’re right,” she said simply.

“About?”

“About it being the smart move. The acquisition makes sense from every financial and strategic angle.” She looked down at her coffee. “And if it goes through, I’ll be redundant within six months. Too expensive to keep, too senior to repurpose.”

The admission hung between them—the kind of truth that could never be spoken in their Monday through Friday interactions.

“If you know that,” he said carefully, “why fight it?”

She looked up at him then, something fierce in her gaze.

“Because the company is more than its balance sheet. Because we’ve built something that works differently, thinks differently, serves its people differently than Meridian ever would.” She paused. “And because I’m not ready to be finished with what we’re creating.”

Eric was quiet for a moment, studying her with new interest.

“You know,” he said finally, “Monday Caroline never lets that particular light show.”

“What light?”

“The one that comes into your eyes when you talk about something you truly believe in.” He leaned forward slightly. “It’s quite something. Makes your boardroom persona seem like a shadow puppet by comparison.”

She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her bare face or casual clothes. Seen in a way that both thrilled and terrified her.

“Is this conversation happening?” she asked suddenly. “Or are we pretending it isn’t, once Monday arrives?”

It was the question that had been hovering beneath the surface since they’d started walking. The one that would determine whether these Sunday encounters remained safely compartmentalized or began to bleed into their professional reality.

Eric considered this, his expression serious.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that depends on what you want. What matters more to you—the neat division between your worlds, or the possibility of something more integrated?”

“And if I choose the division?” she asked. “If I need these Sundays to remain separate?”

“Then that’s what they’ll be,” he said simply. “Closed systems. What happens on Sundays stays on Sundays.”

She studied him, trying to discern his preference. His agenda.

“And what do you want?” she asked.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“I want to know the woman who buys impractical mirrors and speaks passionately about corporate values,” he said. “Whether that happens only on Sundays or extends into the rest of the week—that’s up to you.”

The offer was both generous and challenging. A recognition of her boundaries and an invitation to reconsider them.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression shifting subtly.

“I need to take this,” he said, standing. “Work emergency. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, understanding perfectly the intrusion of Monday into Sunday’s sacred hours.

“Next Sunday?” he asked, pausing before walking away.

It was a simple question that wasn’t simple at all. A request for permission to enter this private territory again. To witness her ongoing transformation.

“Maybe,” she said, neither committing nor refusing.

He smiled, accepting the ambiguity.

“I’ll be here either way,” he said. Then he was gone, moving through the café with the slightly accelerated energy of someone shifting back into professional mode.

Caroline remained, watching the space where he had been, feeling the ripples of their conversation expanding outward.

The Mirror That Shows Too Much

That evening, she hung the mirror by her front door. The last thing she would see before entering the world, the first upon returning.

Standing before it in the soft light of her apartment, she studied her reflection. The woman who looked back was neither Sunday Caroline nor Monday Caroline, but something in between. Something still forming.

She reached up, touching the glass gently.

“Who are you becoming?” she whispered to her reflection.

And for just a moment—a trick of the light, perhaps, or a fragment of imagination—she could have sworn the woman in the mirror smiled back. Not the careful, measured smile she’d perfected for clients and colleagues. Not the polite, distant smile she offered to service staff and doormen.

But something real. Something that reached her eyes.

A smile that suggested maybe, just maybe, the question itself was the beginning of an answer.

As she turned away, her phone buzzed with a notification. An email that made her heart skip.

Subject: Meridian Capital – New Acquisition Strategy From: Eric Whitman

She stared at it, caught between her separate realities, knowing that opening this message would irreversibly blur the boundaries she’d so carefully maintained.

Sunday Caroline would read it now, curious and unguarded. Monday Caroline would wait until morning, when she was fortified with structure and strategy.

She looked back at the mirror, at the woman caught between versions of herself.

And made her choice.

To be continued in “Sundays Without Makeup: Ep4 – When Worlds Collide” – where professional strategies and personal revelations intertwine, unexpected allies emerge, and the question becomes not which self is real, but whether any single version of ourselves can ever contain the whole truth.

This was : “Sundays Without Makeup: Ep3 – The Ignite Boundaries Between Worlds Begin to Blur”
See also: “Sundays Without Makeup: Ep2 – The Forgotten Woman in the Glass Hours” where the first encounter with Eric Whitman revealed the possibility of being seen beyond professional facades.

For insights into how compartmentalization affects professional women’s identity, read “How Women Leaders’ Identities Coexist Through Public and Private Identity Endorsements” where research reveals the psychological impact of maintaining separate versions of ourselves across different contexts.