I had just bought a new purse. Compact, sleek, and with a zipper that whispered “class.” For once, I didn’t settle for something cheap and flimsy. This one was the one. I filled it with everything a woman might need for a day out — wallet, tissues, mirror, lipstick, even that little emergency chocolate bar (don’t judge me).

Then came the mistake. A juice box. A tiny, innocent-looking, unopened orange juice box. I tossed it inside just for a moment because I had too many things in my hands. What could possibly go wrong?

An hour later, I opened my perfect purse — and stepped into a citrus crime scene. Everything was sticky. My lipstick had melted into some kind of orange-pink goo. The mirror was fogged with juice mist. My wallet was soaked. It didn’t smell like leather anymore — it smelled like a toddler’s birthday party gone wrong.

I tried everything: wet wipes, paper towels, sun-drying it on the balcony, even pretending it didn’t happen. But no. The purse never recovered. The love was gone.

And now, whenever I see a juice box, I flinch a little. That’s how trauma works, I guess.

Lesson learned? Never trust a juice box in a luxury handbag. Never.