Lauren
“Ican’t believe you replaced our apartment so fast,” Emma's voice buzzes through my phone as I unpack yet another box of my life.
“Right? A true Christmas miracle, minus the angel choirs.” My tone is dry, though a hint of satisfaction creeps in. Finding a place in Manhattan during the holidays felt like a war of attrition. The city is a whirlwind—lights blinking in a frenzy, crowds moving like frenzied schools of fish, everyone trying to wrap their livesin tinsel and fake cheer. I watch it from my new window, a small crack in the world high above Harlem. Not exactly the dream, but it’ll do.
Emma was my roommate, sister, and partner in crime—until she wasn’t. The roommate part; she’s still my sister. Now it’s just me, my boxes, and the echo of her voice in my ear.
“You left for Miami a month ago, Emma. You know I couldn’t afford that place on my own,” I say, tugging a picture frame from the last box. The dust catches in the light, dancing lazily as if time itself moves slower here.
I stare at the family photo—Mom, Dad, Emma, and me, captured in front of a Christmas tree that sags under the weight of a thousand mismatched ornaments. The tree looked chaotic and cluttered, but it was perfect. That was ten years ago—our last Christmas before everything changed. Before Mom’s diagnosis shook the ground beneath us. The memory feels like a crack in the ice, deep and sudden. But we made a silent pact back then: stick together, no matter what. Even when Emma left, it wasn’t goodbye, just a shift. She’s chasing dreams in Miami, where the sun melts a person’s skin, and Cuban food is practically a religion. I tell myself that’s what we all do—chase the next thing. She didn’t just leave for any job either. She was recruited—practically headhunted byGreat Ideas Co.The name makes me think of a slick corporate villain from a cartoon, but Emma worshipped them. She’s not the remote-working kind anyway; she needs to be seen, to impress, to exist in the thick of it.
“I’m happy for you,” I told her when she left. And I meant it. But now, I’m in this tiny Harlem apartment, staring at bare walls that feel so much smaller without her art in them. The floor creaks, the paint peels, but with some second-hand furniture and a lot of imagination, I might just turn this place into something livable.
“Anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than rent,” I add. “I’m two interviews away from landing the job.”
“The CEO’s assistant interview, right?” Emma asks.
“Yeah, but if I make it through that one, then it’s the CEOhimself,” I correct, my stomach twisting as the words leave my mouth. I feel the weight of them, heavy and impossible to swallow.
“Oh God.” Emma laughs. “Are you nervous?”
“Of course I am. It’s aCEO. It’s like meeting Hades but with better suits.”
Property Group NYC is every real estate agent’s dream—the Holy Grail of the property world, and lucky for them, real estate ismyspecialty. The position they’re looking to fill might as well have my name on it. I’ve got the experience, the patience, and the relentless drive to work side by side with the boss. The role is a hybrid of assistant and agent, a perfect fit for my life, my ambition, and my meticulous style. I’ve been chasing this company like a die-hard teenager following her favorite boy band.
When Property Group shows up in the media, there's Lauren, front and center, soaking up every detail. They’re a quiet powerhouse, flying under the radar for most, but not for us insiders in the real estate game. We know they’re an unstoppable force, and I’ve been waiting for my shot to be a part of that.
“Well, you’re gonna do great. I can feel it,” Emma says, oozing confidence. “But I still don’t get why you didn’t wait it out to keep the old apartment.”
“I can’t wait. This is Manhattan, not some cushy small town. I’ve gotta save what I can, just in case the universe decides to be cruel, and I don’t get the job. These companies takeforeverto hire someone, and I needed a Plan B. Waiting it out wasn’t an option,” I explain, mentally double-checking my budget, like I always do.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Classic Lauren and her systems,” Emma teases. I can practically hear the grin on her face through the phone.
Oh, yes, my beloved systems. I’m an organization freak and proud of it. I have a method for everything—color-coded calendars, labeled storage bins, and spreadsheets for every conceivable scenario. Even going to the bathroom has its rhythm. Well, maybe notthat…My life is a series of perfectly timed moves, and that’s how I like it.
Control equals comfort. Comfort lowers anxiety. And when Lauren’s anxiety is low, Lauren is happy.
“Well, enough about me,” I say, switching gears. “Tell me more about this new place of yours.”
As Emma launches into a detailed description of her latest adventure, I focus on my own task of getting my world in order. I hang the most important things first. My family’s photo takes its rightful place on my nightstand, the books fall into alphabetical perfection on the shelves, and my clothes are lined up in a spectrum of colors, arranged by how often I wear them. Everything in its place, every single item with a purpose. Something is calming about it. The more controlled my space, the more I feel like I’m in control of the chaos outside. I step back, admiring the closet that now looks Pinterest-worthy, a masterpiece of visual pleasure.
#OrganizationGoals.
“Lauren, are you even listening to me?” Emma snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Of course I am,” I reply, catching every word. “You said your new office looks like Google threw up all over it, your boss is dangerously good-looking, and your neighbors already asked you out.”
Dead silence. “Nothing ever gets past you, does it?”
“Never.” I grin. “But now, little sis, this girl needs her beauty sleep. I’ve got the second-to-last interview tomorrow. If that goes well, I just need to charm the CEO.”
“You better call me the second you get the job,” Emma warns.
“You know I will.”
“You say that, but youalwayscall Mom first,” she teases. “Sweet dreams!”
The line goes dead, and I shift into my pre-bedtime routine. Skincare, brush, floss—check, check, check. Hair tied up and bed meticulously made. I slip under the covers and stare at the ceiling, trying to visualize my next step.
