I didn't even remember falling asleep.
The TV was still buzzing in the background, casting flickers of light against the walls like a silent disco of static and reruns. I was curled up awkwardly on the couch, one arm pinned beneath me and my neck at an angle that screamed you're going to regret this later. My blanket had slid halfway to the floor, tangled around my legs like it had given up on keeping me warm halfway through the night.
The half-eaten sandwich I'd picked up yesterday sat untouched on the coffee table, the grease seeping through the paper bag like guilt. I had every intention of eating it when I got home. Instead, it had become a cold monument to another day lost to exhaustion.
My phone was wedged between the couch cushions, barely visible. The screen lit up just enough to taunt me: Low Battery – 4%... and three missed alarms.
"Great," I muttered, voice gravelly from sleep. "Another late start."
I groaned and peeled myself off the cushions, every muscle stiff with sleep and poor posture. My body moved on autopilot—half-zombie, half-human—as I stumbled toward the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with a version of myself I didn't particularly enjoy: wild hair, pillow lines etched into my cheek, and the hollow-eyed look of someone who hadn't had a full eight hours in... weeks? Months?
I brushed my teeth with a kind of mechanical urgency, rinsing my mouth with cold tap water and splashing my face like it might erase the tiredness. A shower followed—quick, lukewarm, just enough to feel human again. I ran a brush through my hair, mostly out of obligation, wincing every time it caught on a knot. It looked passable, which was the best it ever looked these days.
Then it was the kitchen—or, the corner of my apartment that pretended to be a kitchen. I slapped together a to-go cup of coffee using the last sad scoop of grounds from the tin. It was more water than flavor, but it was caffeine, and that was enough. I didn't even bother with toast. Just grabbed my bag, shoved my phone and charger inside, and bolted out the door.
Only as I reached the subway platform, wind tugging at my coat, did I remember the job listing I'd clicked on the night before. The one with the sleek black logo and the salary that looked like someone had accidentally added an extra zero. At the time, it felt like a fantasy, a joke. Something I'd saved just to feel like I could apply to something better—even if I knew I wouldn't.
Honestly, I forgot all about it. Between rushing to my shift at the café, dodging passive-aggressive texts from my manager, and avoiding yet another shouting match with my mother, life swallowed it whole.
It wasn't until lunchtime, while I was scrubbing out a blender that reeked of kale and regret, that my phone rang.
Unknown Number.
I froze for a second, thumb hovering over the screen. Spam? Debt collectors? Another scam about my car warranty—on a car I didn't even own?
I almost didn't pick up.
But something nudged me. Curiosity. Boredom. Desperation. Maybe all three.
"Hello?" I answered, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, still holding a dirty rag in one hand.
"Hello, is this Eleanor James?" The voice on the other end was professional. Polished. Like elevator music and glass-walled offices.
"Yes?" I said cautiously, my hand pausing mid-wipe.
"This is from Black & Crane Enterprises. You applied last night for the Personal Secretary role?"
Oh. That job. The maybe-scam, definitely-too-good-to-be-true one. The one I'd submitted a résumé to while half-asleep and slightly tipsy on boxed wine.
"Uh… yeah," I said, blinking rapidly. "That was me."
"We'd like to invite you in for an interview. Tomorrow morning. 9 a.m. sharp. Are you available?"
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My brain had fully checked out, still trying to catch up. I was pretty sure I hadn't even spell-checked the résumé I submitted.
"Yes. I'll be there," I heard myself say, like someone else was speaking through me.
"Wonderful. Dress code is business formal. Bring a printed résumé and be prepared for an on-the-spot task evaluation."
And just like that, the call ended.
No thank-you. No confirmation email. Just a dial tone and my own reflection staring back at me from the chrome counter.
Business formal. Printed résumé. Evaluation.
The words echoed in my head like a warning siren.
After my shift ended—mercifully—it was like my feet had a mind of their own. I found myself walking toward Tasha's apartment without even thinking, like muscle memory had taken over. She lived just above the laundromat next door to our building, but her place always smelled like cinnamon and ambition. Two things I desperately needed.
She opened the door before I even knocked. "Your mom again?" she asked, taking one look at my face.
"Always."
She tugged me inside and pressed a warm mug of hot chocolate into my hands—Tasha's signature comfort weapon, as effective as any therapy session. I let the warmth bleed into my fingers and took a sip, the sweetness grounding me.
"So what's today's horror story?" she asked, settling onto the couch beside me.
I exhaled. "Actually… something weird happened. I got a call. For a job interview."
Her brows shot up. "Wait, like a job job? Where?"
"Some place called Black & Crane. I don't know. I applied last night. Kind of… by accident?"
Tasha blinked. "Accidental applications don't exist." She was already grabbing her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. "Let's see… Oh damn. This place is real. And rich rich. Like, Manhattan skyline rich."
"I figured it was fake," I said, taking another sip. "But they want me there tomorrow morning. 9 a.m. Business formal. Whatever that even means anymore."
"This is huge, El. You have to go."
"I don't even know what they saw in my résumé," I muttered. "It's mostly retail and food service. What do I know about being a CEO's secretary?"
She gave me that look—the one that said don't even try to downplay yourself right now. "You've been managing your mom's chaos like a full-time job since you were sixteen. That's practically executive-level multitasking."
I smiled despite myself. "I hate how good you are at pep talks."
"That's because I believe in you. Now go. Prep. And talk to your mom. Clear the air. If this job becomes your way out, you need to make space for it."
She was right, and I hated that she was right. The thought of another conversation with my mom made my stomach knot, but if I didn't start carving out a different life, I'd be stuck in this same cycle forever.
I went home that night and didn't even glance at the stack of bills waiting on the kitchen counter. Instead, I walked down to the corner store and paid to print my résumé on cheap, slightly-smudged paper. Then I stood in front of my closet for a solid hour, piecing together the best version of "business formal" I could with what I had—mostly thrift finds and a skirt that only looked structured if I didn't move too fast.
I even practiced interview questions in the mirror, trying not to wince every time I made eye contact with myself.
By midnight, something stirred in my chest. A flicker of something I hadn't felt in far too long.
Hope.
But it didn't last.
At exactly 7:45 the next morning, just as I was zipping up my skirt and checking my eyeliner in the mirror—making sure my reflection didn't scream impostor—I heard it.
A crash.
Then a thud.
Then silence.
"Mom?" I called, panic rising in my chest like smoke