1
OLIVE
A Half-Naked Encounter
Isink lower into the bathwater until the bubbles nearly reach my ears, the warm water lapping against my collarbones as if trying to soothe the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in my chest.
The tub is old, stained a little pink around the edges where the grout lost the battle years ago. The faucet drips in a slow, rhythmic tick. The window lets in the sound of a distant siren, then the rumble of a passing car. Still, it’s the quietest moment I’ve had in weeks.
The water smells like fake lavender and something vaguely medicinal, but I don’t care. I need the illusion of peace. I need this moment where the world feels soft and contained—where I’m not thinking about death certificates and cardboard boxes and how quickly life can collapse.
Two months ago, I was still inourapartment. The one with the crooked bookshelf and the yellow-tiled kitchen. The one that always smelled like chamomile and cinnamon because Grandma swore it kept the neighbors sweet. The one we’d shared since I graduated college and moved in to help her after her second fall.
I never planned to stay long. But we fell into a rhythm—me with my lesson plans and library books, her with her humming and tea and the way she always had a sweater ready when I forgot mine.
Now I’m crashing on my brother’s couch, missing everything about the life I lost. Don’t get me wrong—Liam’s been great, in his own chaotic way. He spends most of the year touring with bands and still thinks Pop-Tarts count as dinner, but when it really matters, he shows up.
He didn’t hesitate when I called.
But this isn’t my space. It’s not ours. And no matter how kind he is—he’s not Grandma.
She used to say, 'There’s nothing a hot bath and a good cry can’t fix.'
She said the same about chocolate cake and old movies, too—but the bath part stuck.
Except she’s not here anymore.
One moment she was standing in her kitchen, swaying to jazz in her slippered feet, trying to make lemon cookies from memory. The next, she was in the hospital. A stroke. Fast. Unexpected. Unfair.
I barely had time to say goodbye. I held her hand and tried to act strong, like I wasn’t completely unraveling. But she knew. She always knew.
And just like that, it was over.
I stayed in the apartment as long as I could. Pretended nothing had changed except the silence.
But grief isn’t just loss. It’s math. Rent. Utilities. Food. Things I could almost afford when it was the two of us.
Alone? Not even close.
The landlord was sympathetic—for about five minutes. Then came the warning notice. Then the thirty days. Then the day I handed over the keys to a place that had always smelled like home.
So here I am.
Twenty-seven. Evicted. Broke. Alone.
Living in my brother’s apartment, sleeping on a couch that eats my spine during the night, and trying to pretend I haven’t failed at adulthood in record time.
I think about my work.
I love those kids. Every single sticky-fingered, glitter-covered, snack-demanding one of them. Teaching kindergarten is messy, exhausting, and occasionally sticky in ways that defy science—but it’s mine. My tiny kingdom of finger paints and story time and “Miss Hart, I think I swallowed my crayon.”
It’s the only place I’ve felt useful since Grandma passed.
But love doesn’t pay rent.
And even if I somehow found a new apartment tomorrow, I couldn’t afford it on my salary. Not in this city. Not with how rent’s been climbing like it’s in a race with inflation and basic human dignity.
I run a hand through my wet hair, watching water drip from my fingers like the hours slipping through my day planner. I’ve crunched the numbers a dozen times. They never add up. My income is adorable in the way small woodland creatures are adorable—harmless, well-intentioned, and utterly unqualified to fight the landlord-industrial complex.
