Mario had called me twice already. When I didn't answer, he sent me a message at around 1 a.m. It read:
'One month. Have fun.'
Detached. Short. Like he was sending me off to summer camp. I knew he felt bad. I could feel the guilt wedged behind that text.
Still, it made me snort.
I blinked away sleep, trying my best to fix my gaze on the screen. My thumbs fumbled as I typed back:
'i demannd a raise. And alsho a farm animall. maybe a caw.
Also u left me for ded. unforgivevble.
no i'm kiding lol but srsly i want a goat.'
Nailed it.
The text motivated me even more to go ahead without thinking twice.
I tapped a certain app, a few strokes and taps on my phone. And...done.
I dropped the phone on my stomach, and stared at the ceiling, with sleepy eyes, like I'd won something.
Because in a way, I had.
Thirty days. No newsroom. No chaos. No cover stories or layout meetings or coffee-stained blouses. Just me. Breathing. Sleeping in.
I smiled to myself, eyes already sliding shut again.
Hell yes.
My eyes opened slowly, one lid at a time, like my body needed to double-check it was still alive. The ceiling swam into view, blurry and too bright.
My head was banging. Not just a dull ache—no, this was a full-blown, behind-the-eyeballs, somebody-was-sawing-my-skull-in-half type of pain.
Every joint in my body ached like I'd just finished a marathon on broken glass. My muscles protested as I shifted, and I let out a groan that felt dramatic—until I actually tried moving my legs.
My feet—God—my feet were on fire. Imaginary flames that felt painfully real, licking up my ankles from walking anywhere and everywhere yesterday and the days before that.
Flip flops. What was I thinking?
I lay there, nude, sheets tangled around me like I'd fought sleep and lost. My mouth was dry. My eyes were crusty. My skin felt sticky with stress.
I didn't even remember crawling into bed, which meant I probably never did. I must've passed out.
I closed my eyes again. Said my prayers, the way my mother taught me—half-whispered, half-thought. Thank you for keeping me alive and letting me hold on to my sanity. Now, please help me get out of bed, I have a flight to catch. Amen.
My phone buzzed. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
I cracked one eye open. Five notifications in two seconds.
Classic Clarissa.
I didn't even check. I just reached over, grabbed the phone, and turned the whole damn thing off without blinking.
Silence.
A breath left me and I sank deeper into the mattress.
I must've dozed off again because the next time I looked at the clock, I had exactly one hour before my flight.
One. Hour.
I shot up like someone had fired a starter pistol next to my ear.
Bad move. My head spun. My body screamed. But adrenaline kicked in, dragging me up and out of bed like it was personally offended I was still there.
And then the chaos began.
My room looked like it had been robbed by someone who only wanted stress and discarded outfits.
Clothes were everywhere—draped over chairs, shoved under the bed, twisted into vague fabric tornadoes in corners.
I started with good intentions. I really did. I opened my suitcase with a plan.
That plan lasted thirty seconds.
Soon I was flinging things in blindly: jeans, leggings, shorts, shirts, two jackets (why two? No idea), five bras even though I only wear two religiously, and a suspiciously clean hoodie I didn't remember owning. Toothbrush? Somewhere in the side pocket. Maybe.
I yanked open drawers like they personally wronged me. Socks flew. I yelled something like "WHERE ARE MY BLACK PANTIES?" like the universe owed me a response.
Somewhere in the chaos, I pulled on the outfit equivalent of a breakdown: a crooked, slightly stretched crop top that said 'NOPE' in big letters, and a pair of knee-length shorts that may or may not have belonged to my dad once.
I shoved my feet into a pair of purple Crocs. Then came the hair.
My arms moved on autopilot as I pulled yesterday's awkward, lopsided ponytail back into existence. It was a mess. A crime against grooming.
But it kept my hair out of my face. For now. And I wasn't about to admit this Frankenstein of a hairstyle had actually become my go-to.
I paused at the mirror. Stared. Then shuddered.
I looked like I had just lost a fight. With life. And fashion. Possibly also a raccoon.
Eyes puffy. Hair fighting gravity and dignity. Lips chapped. My shirt rode up a little on the left, but I couldn't even find the energy to tug it down.
I zipped my bag shut with the strength of a woman holding on to her last brain cell. Grabbed my phone. Took one last look around. Realized I didn't pack deodorant.
Too late. I was going to Nebraska smelling like effort and mild despair.
I slung my overstuffed tote onto one shoulder, grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and bolted out of my room.
The suitcase groaned in protest, like it knew what kind of day we were about to have.
Halfway down the stairs, the wheel gave out. Just—gave up on life.
There was a sad little pop, followed by a pathetic wobble, and then that dragging noise. You know the one. Like sandpaper on concrete.
I hissed through my teeth. "Not today. Not today."
I tried to adjust the angle. Lifted it. Dropped it. Kicked it gently like a loving parent trying to motivate their child.
It responded by twisting sideways and smacking into the banister.
"Damnit."
My tote slipped down my arm, nearly taking me with it. I barked out a tired laugh, the kind that came from a place deep in my soul where caffeine used to live.
Every stair felt like a punishment. My body was already sore, my mind foggy, and now I was basically dragging a wounded animal behind me.
By the time I hit the bottom floor, I was sweating, panting, and lowkey considering setting the suitcase on fire.
But hey—thirty days away. Thirty days of clean air, wide skies, and no printers spitting out error messages.
All I had to do was survive the next hour.
Easy. Right?
Right?
•••