Chapter Text
You open your eyes to the muffled sound of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it wakes your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster. It feels like you only slept for a few minutes. It was dark when you fell asleep. It’s still dark now.
Exhaustion weighs you down, pinning you to the mattress. The only sound is your own breath—even, but resigned. Twenty-five minutes to get ready. A fifteen-minute bus ride. A ten-minute walk to the coffee shop. That leaves ten minutes to spare before your shift.
You turn your head and reach out. Cold air hits your forearm, raising goosebumps. You want to pull back into the warm safety of the sheets, but you keep moving.
Life won’t stop for a few more minutes of comfort.
Your fingertips find the notebook on your desk. Feeling the cover, you trace the indents where your pen pressed hard against the paper. The grooves grow shallower until they vanish completely. That must have been around midnight, when you grew too tired to write.
Today feels impossible. But you’ve felt that way for the past two years, and you’re still here.
With a heavy sigh, you push off the desk and the hard mattress to force yourself upright. The chill bites at your bare neck. Someone forgot to turn on the heat. The house is eerily quiet without the familiar rattle of the vents. You swing your legs out of bed, your feet hit the icy floorboards before sliding into your slippers. It feels like your body is creaking with every step. You unlock your door and step into the hall.
The hum of the refrigerator greets you. Across the hallway, a sliver of light glows under your roommate's door. Still awake. You step quietly into the shared bathroom, gingerly closing the door before flicking on the light.
The mirror doesn't lie. You look tired. The bags under your eyes are puffy. Your shoulders droop. Your lips rest in a flat, neutral line, lacking the energy to pull upward or down. You look away, focusing on your designated shelf of toiletries. It’s becoming harder to look at yourself. It’s not just the four hours of sleep. It’s not the coffee shop shift, followed by classes, followed by the restaurant shift. It’s not the homework waiting for you tonight, or the fact that you have to do it all again tomorrow.
It’s a soul-deep tiredness. A day off won’t fix it.
You chose this, you remind yourself, forced to look back at the glass. Choosing to struggle was your decision. The first real decision you ever made for yourself.
You brush your teeth and wash your face, praying the routine wakes you up. While applying moisturizer, you force your lips into a smile. You practice it over and over, tailoring it for a future customer because you can’t bear to actually smile at yourself. You turn to leave, but your reflection catches your hair.
Disarray.
You grab your brush, meticulously forcing every misplaced strand into place. It has to be perfect.
“When you go out looking like that, you’re embarrassing me and yourself.”
Your mother’s voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. It shouldn’t bother you anymore. You left. But the words stayed behind, hiding in your head, waiting to strike whenever your shirt is wrinkled, or a blemish appears on your cheek, or your posture begins to slouch.
You step out into the hall once you’re satisfied—or at least as satisfied as you can be.
Back in your room, you flick on the light. You’re still not used to this space, but you forgive yourself since it’s only been three months. It could be worse. The room holds just enough space for your single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a small cabinet for your clothes. It’s a far cry from your room back home.
Home. You shake your head. This is your home now. Your parents' house belongs to them. It was never truly yours.
You reach for the clothes you set out last night, folded neatly at the edge of the mattress. A simple black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. You slip them on, looking down. The denim hangs looser than before.
Did you forget to eat again yesterday? It would explain why you feel especially hollow today.
You step into your sneakers and lace them up. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. It’s such a common sight by now that you don't even care. You slide the notebook into your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and grab your phone.
Stepping into the hall, you pull the door shut and lock it with your key. Your housemates seem like good people, but good people have disappointed you before. Plus, with ten other people sharing the house, you aren’t taking chances.
The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. You take measured steps, trying not to break the silence. Pulling the heavy front door open, you step outside, and listen for the click of the automatic lock behind you.
You check the time. The bus should arrive the moment you hit the corner. The late autumn chill bites at your skin, shocking some of the exhaustion out of your system. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake.
The bus arrives promptly. Only two other passengers are aboard—faces you’ve started to recognize. Taking your usual seat near the front, you rest your backpack on your lap and lean your head back. You watch the streetlights pass in a blur, bracing yourself for the first challenge of the day.
—
The streets are still quiet as you walk the ten minutes to the coffee shop, where warm lights greet you against the backdrop of darkness. You greet your two coworkers warmly, falling into the familiar chatter and complaints about how tired you all are.
Gathering your hair, you pull it into a ponytail. You check the tie meticulously, ensuring no stray strands hang loose. You comb your fingers through the ends before smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt and grabbing your apron off the coat hooks.
Glancing up, you find your coworkers watching you with mild amusement.
“You’re always so careful about your appearance," one of them says. "Girl, you’re pretty, don’t stress so much.”
It would stress me more if I weren’t careful, you think.
“I have to make sure I look good. It’s not for me, I’m doing it for you two,” you say with a practiced laugh. “Gotta maximize the tips.”
They laugh along with you as you head toward the front counters where opening tasks await. Your smile slowly fades the moment they look away. As they talk about recent pop culture events, you just nod whenever they look to you for an opinion.
—
You’re three coffees in by the time the morning rush ends. Your brain is running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the pure need to survive. The three of you lean against the back counters with exaggerated exhaustion.
You only have fifteen minutes left of your shift. The rush to your classes is always tight, but you’ve been making it work.
A phone chimes. One of your coworkers pulls it out, checking the screen. “Ugh,” they groan. “Luke just said he’s going to be an hour late for his shift.”
Cold panic pricks at your chest. Luke is your replacement.
Both of them turn to you, expectation heavy in their eyes. “Can you please stay until he gets here?”
You can’t. The gap between your shift and your first lecture is already cutting it close. Staying forty-five minutes past your time means accepting that you will walk into the lecture room in the middle of the class. It means everyone turning to look at you.
“Yeah, of course,” you respond, the words leaving your mouth before you can even think to stop them.
They cheer beside you, patting your back. You smile along with them as if it’s no sweat.
Internally, you fight to breathe. You ignore the way your heart rate spikes, your breath turning quick and shallow. The sheer physical strength required to keep the fake smile on your face grows heavier by the second.
This feeling has been happening more often lately. It hits whenever you think about pending assignments, your rent, your tuition, or even what you’re going to eat.
But it isn’t anxiety. It can’t be.
Your parents always told you anxiety was impossible—a made-up excuse. They said you just needed to be mentally stronger. Your ex-boyfriend had said the exact same thing. You just need to get over it.
He had told you to ignore most of the problems you confided in him with, and back then, you listened. He was the last real relationship you had been in, and his words still carried a heavy weight you were desperately working to outrun.
He was also the last relationship you had before you finally realized that romance wasn’t strictly exclusive to a man and a woman—no matter how deeply your parents had convinced you of it your entire life.
Yet, somehow, a part of you still believed them despite everything. You still worry your own mental fortitude is the real problem.
So, you ignore it. You ignore it even when your hands shake as you pour a latte. You ignore it when your voice wavers against the violent drumming of your pulse in your throat. You ignore it because you have no other choice. You have to continue.
—
It feels like ages before Luke finally arrives with an apologetic smile. You assure him it’s fine, grab your backpack from the breakroom, and bid your coworkers goodbye.
A frantic sprint pays off. You hit the curb just as the bus pulls up.
Boarding, you tap your foot anxiously against the floor. You pull your hair loose, shaking it out and combing your fingers through the strands to recreate the perfection from hours ago. It’s a clumsy, difficult task. Your hands still refuse to listen to orders. You won't have time to change clothes in the campus bathroom today. The scent of espresso and steamed milk will follow you until your restaurant shift tonight.
For a split second, you consider skipping. No. You shake your head, disgusted by the thought. You haven’t taken shortcuts yet. You didn't work countless grueling hours to pay for tuition for this term just to skip. You have to succeed.
Though lately, the definition of success has begun to waver. What does it even mean anymore? Getting the degree? Landing a job? Getting married?
The bus brakes at the university. Pushing up from your seat, you sling your backpack over one shoulder, thank the driver with a warm smile, and sprint toward your lecture hall.
You ease the heavy door open, praying none of the hundred students notice you. A few heads turn briefly before pivoting back to the board. You slip into a seat in the very back row, closest to the exit. Dropping your bag, you pull out your notebook.
Look up toward the projector screen, your eyes lock with the professor's instead. He glares at you with a heavy, disapproving expression before looking away. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and pick up your pen.
The sound of quiet whispers and light giggles drifts up from the row below. A small group of students are conversing with bowed heads, trying to hide bright, genuine smiles.
It’s been a long time since you actually enjoyed school. A long time since you weren’t just going through the motions.
Watching one of the students clap their friend on the shoulder, a sudden flood of memory hits you. The sterile hallways of your old high school flash in your mind. Two familiar people stand on either side of you.
Yelena and Kate.
Kate has her arm slung over your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper a joke about Yelena, knowing full well she can hear her. Yelena flicks Kate’s forehead in retaliation, and the three of you burst into laughter.
Your second year of high school feels like another lifetime. The memories with the two of them are like a dream. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about them. You miss Kate tripping over her own shoes, and Yelena making sure she never lived it down for the rest of the day. You miss being in the middle of it all, pulling Kate off the floor and telling Yelena to play nice, only to secretly laugh about it with her later.
You smile wryly despite yourself, the professor's voice fading into background static as you drift deeper into your own mind. Every single memory with the two of them was happy.
Except one.
On the day the three of you graduated, the air was full of laughter and flying caps. You hugged them tightly as they chattered endlessly about the future. Kate had paused, turning to look at you, asking why you hadn’t been chiming in.
Behind your practiced smile, you were suffocating.
They didn’t know your parents hadn’t shown up to watch you cross the stage. They didn’t know you had left your house key sitting on the empty kitchen table that morning. They didn't know every single thing you owned was packed into the trunk of your car—the same car you were scheduled to sell tomorrow just to afford the deposit and first month's rent on a cramped apartment.
They didn't know you weren’t going to university with them.
It was always assumed the three of you would go to the same university. You were supposed to survive the crowded dorms for the first two years, then find an apartment together for the remaining two. That was the original plan.
But things changed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was always going to end up exactly like this.
Instead of telling them the truth, you told Kate you were just tired from staying up late from excitement. You hid your hands inside the long sleeves of your graduation gown—concealing the white bandages where rough cardboard boxes had dried and cracked your skin during the midnight move.
How could you tell them it felt like you were falling apart? Not when they were smiling so happily. Not when you knew exactly what they would do if they found out. They would offer to help financially.
But you were the one who made the decision to leave home. You chose to forfeit your parents' financial support. You made the decision to go to community college because it was more affordable. You made the choice to struggle, and you had to live with it.
Accepting their help would make the sacrifice meaningless. Letting them worry, letting them give you an easy way out, would only make you waver. And you couldn't afford to waver.
The sound of students rising from their chairs breaks you out of your memories. A few give you small smiles as they pass.
Other students had tried to talk to you over the past few weeks, tried to build a friendship, but it always felt impossible. You were good at the polite smiles, the fake laughter, blending into conversations with effortless ease. But you never felt that same deep familiarity and comfort you had shared with Yelena and Kate. Friendships after them had only disappointed you, leaving quiet scars that still stung to this day.
Instead of lingering for small talk, you gather your things and walk toward the crowded food hall. You scan the racks of snacks, eventually picking up two granola bars that happen to be on a promotional deal.
A burst of bright laughter and a fiercely familiar accent make you freeze mid-breath.
In your peripheral vision, you catch a flash of brown hair and blonde hair walking shoulder-to-shoulder. You whip your head around, your eyes desperately scanning the space, but the image vanishes. There are only a dozen unfamiliar strangers moving past in a dense crowd.
—
You are finally called into your advisor appointment after sitting in the waiting area far past the scheduled time. The finance department feels almost sterile, defined by grey, windowless walls and a total lack of decor.
You walk through the door of the office, where you’re greeted with a professional smile.
“Good afternoon, take a seat,” Mrs. Stewart says warmly. “How was class today?”
I barely heard a single word, you think, already dreading the hours you’ll have to spend reviewing the lecture slides later tonight.
“It was good,” you respond, offering a perfectly tailored, polite smile.
“Wonderful,” she says, pulling up your academic record on her monitor. “You did exceptionally well during your time in community college, so I knew you wouldn’t have too much trouble adjusting here.”
You nod along as she squints at the glowing screen.
“Since you’re officially a junior, I think you should start considering your capstone internship," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling up your academic record.
"As a finance major, it's a mandatory graduation requirement," she explains, leaning back in her chair. "You'll need to secure a position within the financial sector and complete a full term of field experience and complete assignments pertaining to it before you can receive your degree. It basically bridges your university classes with the professional world."
A mandatory internship.
To Mrs. Stewart, it's a standard academic milestone. To you, it sounds like an execution sentence. That means a massive chunk of your week will be consumed by a rigid schedule—time you desperately need for the jobs that actually pay your rent.
Her tone shifts, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Honestly, the job market isn’t at its best right now, so it might be a bit of a challenge. But keep your chin up. Knowing you and your work ethic, you’ll find something.”
Somehow, that blind faith makes you feel infinitely worse.
“Thank you, I’ll look into the listings tonight,” you say, forcing another flawless smile to your lips while your stomach bottoms out.
—
What are you going to do?
You sit with your head buried in your hands, your elbows resting heavily on the desk in front of you as the professor drones on in the background. You’ve already accepted that you'll have to double the work tonight just to review what you missed during your first class and now this one.
But the lectures aren't the real problem. This mandatory internship is going to be the end of you.
You had hoped to push it off until your final year, but realistically, Mrs. Stewart was right. It’s better to complete it now, before the advanced courses demand your absolute, undivided attention. The real crisis is the math. While a quick search shows plenty of available internships, the vast majority are unpaid. At least, the ones open to students without prior relevant experience are.
You can't use your family’s connections. That was never an option. But how are you supposed to find a paying role when every listing requires a relevant background? You’ve spent the last two years grinding in customer service just to stay afloat. You can't exactly drop everything and take on a full-term, unpaid role just to check a box for the university.
But then, you can’t graduate.
You groan internally, tilting your head back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. Frustration tightens like a vice in your chest. You drop your head back down, focusing on the scuffed wooden desk, and force a slow breath out through your nose. The panic dissipates slightly with every exhale.
It’s okay. You’ve made it work so far, and this will be no different. At least, that’s the lie you use to convince yourself.
There is a lingering, heavy static in your chest that refuses to leave, no matter how steadily you breathe.
Peeling back the plastic wrapper of a granola bar, you take a small bite. You chew slowly, trying to savor it, even though your tongue can barely register the taste. Pulling out your phone, you check your shift schedule for the restaurant.
The moment this lecture ends, you will have to sprint back to the house, change out of your coffee-stained clothes, and step into your second uniform. A crisp white collared shirt and clean black slacks.
You’ll have to go through the exhausting task of looking perfect. Even though internally, you know it’s an impossible task that you’ll always continue to deplete yourself doing.
—
You step onto the sidewalk right in front of the house. In the daylight, the full reality of the place is clear. Maybe it would be better if it stayed in the dark.
The wood exterior looks completely worn down, splintered and rotting in some areas. The front porch features two raggedy couches on either side of the entrance, where your roommates typically congregate to smoke cigarettes and weed. Your very first thought upon seeing the house months ago was, “This is definitely a crackhouse.”
To the right, you can see your bedroom window. You had gotten somewhat lucky—living on the middle floor with one of the larger spaces. Though, that isn’t saying much.
You keep your curtains tightly drawn most of the time. You had learned your lesson early on while studying one afternoon. You had left the blinds open to let in the natural light, only to look up and find a homeless man staring straight at you from the sidewalk. The curtains hadn't been opened since.
You punch the code into the keypad, listening for the lock to release before pushing the heavy frame forward. The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. Glancing to your left into the common room, you're relieved to find it completely empty. From the central staircase, the muffled echo of an upstairs roommate showering rains down through the ceiling.
The kitchen door leading to the basement is slightly ajar. You know this without even looking, signaled by the violent shouting echoing up from the couple living downstairs. It had terrified you during your first week, but now, their screaming matches are almost expected.
Pulling your bedroom key out of your pocket, you unlock the door and push it open. Your unmade bed awaits you. You drop your backpack next to your desk chair and quickly peel off your clothes. Even though you are just heading to another shift, getting the coffee-scented fabric off your skin is an instant relief.
You mist a light body spray over your torso before pulling on your restaurant attire. You carefully smooth down the crisp white shirt. Lacking a proper closet, you had hung it meticulously over what you believe used to be an old metal candle holder on the wall.
Gathering your hair, you tie it into a high ponytail with the elastic on your wrist. It feels like an exhausting echo of this morning, save for the change in uniform.
After sliding your wallet into your pocket, you pat the fabric of your black slacks to ensure you have everything, then exit your room and lock the door behind you. You reach for the front door handle but freeze. Turning on your heel, you step into the middle-floor bathroom instead.
You smooth your hair down in the glass, sweeping the front strands to the side so they won’t obscure your vision. You secure them tightly with a bobby pin, ensuring nothing can move.
Perfect.
Satisfied, you slip out the front door and walk quickly toward the bus stop.
—
The ambience of the restaurant is always a bit romantic. The lights are dimmed low, classical music plays quietly in the background, and fresh flowers center every table. It’s a higher-end establishment located just off campus—a favorite spot for local couples celebrating date nights and special occasions.
You’re greeted by your manager, Angie, the moment you step out of the breakroom.
“Hey, honey. Raring to go?” she asks, offering a warm smile.
Angie is always bright and charming. Save for the first time you met her.
It‘s a total 180 from the initial encounter with the middle-aged woman. Months ago, when you had first visited the university town to secure housing, you had stumbled upon this very dining room after a Help Wanted sign caught your eye. She had interviewed you on the spot, watching you closely with a sharp, skeptical eye.
When you honestly admitted you had absolutely no fine-dining experience, she had leaned in close, giving you a long, hard stare. The silence between you felt thick enough to choke on. You were already mentally planning which streets you’d walk down next to find a different job when she suddenly leaned back, a smirk pulling at her lips. She told you to meet her here the following week for onboarding.
When you confessed you hadn't even found a place to live yet, Angie was the one who told you about a vacancy at a shared house nearby. Because of her, you were moved in within five days.
You would never tell her outright, but she had saved you that day. You had been feeling entirely helpless, staring down listings for housing that were far past anything you could afford. She’d tease you endlessly if you ever confessed all this to her. But you have a feeling she already knows, especially when she gives you her signature side-glance and a half-smirk.
“Always,” you respond, mirroring her smile.
She clasps her hand over your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze as you tie your apron around your waist. She pauses for a beat, pressing the pads of her fingers carefully against your shoulder and the prominent ridge of your collarbone.
Sensing the unspoken observation, you quickly fall back into your routine, smoothing your hands over your clothes and combing your fingers through the ends of your ponytail. Angie sighs quietly, releasing your shoulder only to reach up and gently brush a stray hair out of your eyes.
“Knock 'em dead, sweetie,” she says, her voice playful but filled with an overwhelming warmth.
You give her your first real smile of the day, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “They’d call the cops on us if I did that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartie. Knock ‘em alive.”
“Yeah, because that sounds normal.”
She playfully pushes you toward the swinging kitchen doors. “I can’t deal with you,” she says, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You’re in section three. Shoo.”
You quickly wash your hands at the service bar, greeting the bartender and the floor staff. Turning around, you survey the dining room as it slowly begins to fill.
The host catches your eye, nodding to let you know the first reservation for your section has arrived. You step forward, ready to greet them, when the wooden panels of the dining room wall suddenly warp and lean sideways.
Your step falters. You blink rapidly, forcing the violent wave of lightheadedness back down.
Maybe I should’ve eaten the second granola bar instead of rationing it, you think, steadying yourself. But you dismiss the thought just as quickly. You’ve gone through much worse periods of food scarcity than this. You'll get through tonight just fine.
Thankfully, the universe is kind to your section. Your first reservation is a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Despite the static in your head, you go all out for them—bringing special decorative accents to their table and arranging a complimentary dessert with a message wishing them a happy anniversary meticulously piped in chocolate.
Most of your guests tonight are here for date nights. Watching their warm smiles across the crisp white linen and their clasped hands over the candlelight always brings your mood up, casting a faint glow over your own exhaustion.
Soft chatter fills the dining room. Scanning the floor, you check for any tables needing water refills or another round of drinks. You spot a booth to your far left with empty wine glasses and step forward to refill them with the open bottle resting between them. You’re almost halfway there when your vision suddenly blurs, the edges darkening as the room begins to fade. The ambient classical music cuts out, replaced by a sharp, piercing shrill frequency ringing in your ears.
Your feet tangle beneath you. Stumbling hard, you manage to steady yourself without too much commotion. You pause, blinking rapidly until your vision clears, desperately praying no one noticed. Gratefully, the surrounding tables continue to chat, completely lost in their own private worlds. You scan the room one more time just to be absolutely sure you're safe.
That’s when you catch two pairs of sharp green eyes watching you intently from the shadows. They are seated far in the back corner of the dining room. The low, romantic lighting makes it impossible to make out any of their other features, but their locked gaze stays fixed on you as you force your legs to move forward. You swallow past the lump in your throat, tear your eyes away, and focus on refilling the wine glasses at your designated table. You can still feel the weight of their stare burning into your back, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a job to finish.
The table converses with you about their day. While you genuinely try to absorb every single detail, it is a losing battle when it takes your entire universe of effort just to stay upright. Still, you finish the interaction with a reliable go-to joke that always makes couples laugh, departing the booth with warm chuckles trailing behind you.
You risk a glance back at the table in the far corner.
They are still watching you. Through the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of one woman leaning toward the other, whispering something directly into her ear.
Cold dread twists in your stomach. Maybe they're making fun of you for almost eating it.
You quickly walk back toward the service bar, your cheeks burning hot at the humiliating possibility.
—
The remaining hours pass by in a blur. You don’t let your eyes drift back toward that far corner table for the rest of the night, keeping your focus solely on your section.
Before you know it, the dinner rush is over. You're wiping down tables and folding linens alongside the rest of the floor staff, trading stories about high-maintenance customers. One of the hosts chimes in about a table that sent their cocktails back twice, only to declare the third round absolutely perfect—even though the bartender had made it the exact same way every time.
It’s in quiet moments like this, sharing tired laughs in the dim dining room, when you actually feel like a normal university student.
You are grabbing your phone and wallet from the breakroom lockers when Angie's head peeks past the doorframe. She gives you a sly grin, sliding fully into view with a plastic takeout bag in hand.
She pushes the handles toward you. “One of the kitchen guys made a mistake on an order earlier. It’s fettuccine alfredo. It’d make me feel a lot better if you took it, since it’ll just be thrown away otherwise.”
You smooth a hand down the front of your crisp white shirt, biting the inside of your lip. Your stomach is hollow. You’re definitely hungry. But eating it would mean you'd have to go for a long walk afterward to burn it off.
Angie’s pleading eyes make the decision for you.
“Okay,” you respond softly, securing the loops of the bag in your hand.
Angie smiles gently, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. She looks at you for a quiet beat with an expression you can’t quite decipher, before her face shifts back to her familiar, playful smirk. “Thanks for doing me that favor. See you tomorrow night, sweetie.”
She walks away before you even get the chance to respond. Pocketing your belongings, you push through the back exit. The night air hits your cheeks, cool and crisp, and the full weight of the day finally begins to settle into your bones.
The lingering lightheadedness has remained for your entire shift—it's there even now. But somehow, looking down at the heavy container of pasta, you feel a tiny bit better. You walk toward the bus stop, only noticing halfway there that the box is piping hot against your palm.
—
It’s late by the time you arrive back in your room. The house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, with most of your roommates out—some drinking with friends, others grinding through late night part-time jobs.
You unpack the takeout container, placing it on the wooden desk and quietly thanking Angie for remembering to slip a plastic fork into the bag. You pause. Peeling off your pristine white uniform shirt, you hang it carefully back over the candleholder. You pull the long-sleeve black shirt back on. You already know you’ll be forced to go for a long walk the moment you finish this meal, so it doesn't matter if the fabric gets even dirtier.
You pry open the lid of the takeout box. The smell is heavenly—a perfect mix of rich, savory cream that makes you feel lightheaded all over again, this time from pure anticipation. You dig your fork in, taking slow, measured bites despite the overwhelming hollow hunger in your stomach.
“Are you an animal? Eat slowly. Properly.”
You instantly yank your elbows off the desk at the memory of the voice, sitting up rigidly straight in your chair.
The rich taste of the pasta slowly fades into background static, until you are simply eating for sustenance again. You reach down and pull your laptop out from one of the desk drawers. You’re wasting too much time.
Booting up the screen, you open a browser window to search for internship opportunities in finance, ensuring the filters are strictly locked so that only paid positions appear. In a separate tab, you pull up your resume. You scan the lines meticulously, confirming that every detail is updated, every heading aligned, and the format completely flawless.
You scroll through the listings between slow bites of pasta. Every single role requires some sort of prior finance experience, exactly as you expected. Refusing to let the dread stop you, you open each listing in a separate tab, pulling up the application portals one by one. It’s going to take an immense amount of luck, but expanding your net increases your odds.
You meticulously apply for every single open position, uploading your resume and drafting tailored cover letters on the side.
The pasta is long gone, the container cold on your desk, by the time you finally finish the task. Closing the last tab, you lean back heavily in your wooden chair with a long, slow sigh.
It’s already close to midnight, but you force yourself back onto your feet. Pulling your heavy jacket sleeves over your arms, you turn your back on the room and head toward the front door.
Realistically, you shouldn’t be walking outside this late. But the nagging thought of letting the heavy food sit in your stomach compels your legs to move.
You walk to the end of the block, following a line of flickering streetlights that are permanently dimmed by years of grime and residue coating the glass covers. You turn the corner at the end of the pavement, knowing the familiar glow of the corner store awaits you just ahead. It has quickly become a landmark in your new life—a place you routinely visit whenever you need a quick, cheap bite to eat to survive the week.
There is just one massive caveat. One of your roommates who lives downstairs, Matt, often works the night shift there.
He calls out a greeting before you can even think about spinning on your heel and walking straight back out. Matt isn't a bad guy by any means, but he has twelve years on you, and his friendliness always feels heavy. Call it a woman's intuition, but the way he routinely knocks on your bedroom door to ask to hang out, or texts you outside the house group chat, points to one undeniable reality.
He likes you. And right now, you don't have the energy to manage his expectations.
You try to duck into one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of granola bars to hold you over for the next few days, but your escape is cut short when Matt calls out to you.
“Hey! You’re out late,” Matt says, leaning heavily over the checkout counter.
Your lips force themselves into a smile that feels more like a pained grimace, though he doesn't seem to notice the strain.
“Yeah, late night. Just grabbing some snacks real quick,” you respond, keeping your voice tight and fast.
He leans even closer, bridging the distance across the counter. “I knocked on your door earlier. You didn’t answer.” A sharp flicker of annoyance passes over his easy smile before he smooths it back down.
“I was out. Had work tonight,” you reply lightly, desperately trying to keep the conversation casual.
“I didn’t say when I knocked,” he says smoothly. He offers a lazy grin, but his cold eyes tell you something else entirely.
You freeze, locking eyes with his cold stare for a heavy, suffocating second before forcing a breathless chuckle.
“You’re right, my bad," you say, smoothing the tension over. "I was just out pretty much all day.”
Taking a deliberate step back toward the exit, you tighten your jacket around your chest. “I think I’m just going to head back. I’m way more tired than I thought.”
You pivot toward the glass door, but his voice hooks you before you can push it open.
“Hey, I’m sorry," Matt calls out, his tone suddenly softening into something defensive. "Okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Turning back, you slap your flawlessly practiced smile onto your face one last time today.
“No worries, I’m not uncomfortable. Just tired. I’ll see you later.”
You shove the heavy door open and slip out into the midnight air before he can get another syllable out.
You take quick, urgent strides back to the house, cutting your walk short. Ducking inside, you slip into your bedroom and click the lock securely into place. You check the handle twice, tugging against the frame to make sure it’s truly locked.
Patting your pocket, you pull out your phone to check the time. You have just enough time to shower before Matt's shift at the corner store typically ends. Quickly gathering a fresh change of clothes, you slip into the hall and step into the bathroom, desperate to let the steam wash away the crushing pressures of the day and the lingering chill of his stare.
—
You sit on your wooden desk chair, your hair still slightly damp from the shower. The laptop screen glows in front of you, the lecture slides from your first class open and waiting to be reviewed.
Tilting your head back, you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like if you close your eyes for even a single second, you will instantly crash into sleep. Your eyes frantically trace the textures of the plaster as if the physical focus can force you to stay awake just a little longer.
You press your pen into the notebook adjacent to your laptop. You wonder how many minutes of sleep you’ll actually get tonight. Forcing your focus forward, your eyes scan the first slide on the screen.
You fix your posture, sitting up rigidly straight, without a second thought.
—
The days pass by quickly—but not quickly enough at the same time. You wish the exhaustion would fade with the calendar pages, but it only seems to accrue. It’s a currency you have no desire to hold.
Coffee shop. Class. Eat a snack if you have the time. Another class. The dinner shift at the restaurant.
Practiced smiles, laughs with no heart, blurring vision, and sudden missteps.
Avoiding conversations. Avoiding Matt. Avoiding the absolute fact that this lifestyle was killing you.
Over and over again.
It has been five days since you sent out that mass wave of applications to countless companies and organizations. You had gotten a few emails back with initial sparks of interest—only to receive a follow-up a few hours later stating they had misread your file, and that your experience level was ultimately unsatisfactory.
It is one of those rare days where everything actually goes smoothly. People show up for their shifts on time, allowing you to walk into class right as the lecture begins. Frozen pre-made meals happen to be on sale at the store. Your notes are clear and concise for all your courses. The dinner shift passes without a single hitch—except for the few times your vision blurs. But it always clears up.
Now, you lie in bed, genuinely happy that you’ll be getting at least five hours of sleep tonight. It’s a quiet luxury you rarely get to experience. The covers are pulled tight around your chin as the headlights of passing cars flash rhythmically against your bedroom walls.
The vent rattles softly, distributing warm air throughout the small room. You close your eyes, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that tonight, you won’t be cold.
—
You open your eyes to the muffled buzz of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it can wake your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster.
It feels like any other day.
You tap on your phone screen to cast a faint light across the dark room. Your email app displays a singular, glowing red notification.
Tapping the icon, you find a new response waiting in your inbox from one of the final companies on your list.
Please choose an available date for an in-person interview.
— Romanoff-Maximoff Global