That man outside the bank.
The shadow. The stare. The sound of the bang against the glass. God, I can still feel it, like it hit bone.
I exhale too fast, too loud. My heart thumps, slow and hard in my ears.
“It was nothing,” I mumble into the ceiling. “You’re not the lead in a Netflix thriller. You’re a bank associate with a caffeine addiction and mild wine trauma. Calm down.”
Still… I glance toward the window. Just for a second.
Nothing there.
I pick up my phone and check the time again. 6:29 AM.
Alright. Five minutes lost to emotional damage, but the day’s still salvageable. Because despite everything—despite Evan, and the hot stranger, and the mini existential meltdown—I still havework. Which means I still have a paycheck. Which means I can still buy Grandma’s meds, pay rent, and maybe—maybe—a pint of overpriced ice cream, if it’s on sale.
I take a deep breath. “Alright. We rise.”
My full-size bed creaks as I stretch like a starfish, arms hitting both sides of my shoebox bedroom. The mattress is decent, though; three years of payment plans well spent when sleeping on a medieval torture device became unbearable.
I kick off the tangled sheet and shuffle barefoot toward my window. The air feels nice. Warm but not desert-hot yet.
When I finally sit up, my knee knocks the corner of the bookshelf. Again. It’s been there for eight years. You’d think I’d learn.
The place is tiny—450 square feet, to be exact—but it’s mine. Rented onmypaycheck, not Dad’s guilt money or anyone else’s. Not New York tiny, but definitely “don’t try to cartwheel” tiny. You can cross from bed to stove in six steps. Seven if you’re dragging your feet like I am.
I step down and immediately wince. The ache shoots up from my heel like my foot’s filing a complaint. My work shoes—the sensible black flats with the serial killer grip—have been squeezing the life out of my feet for years. I’ve resoled them twice. I think the leather’s just trauma-bonded to me at this point.
The floor’s cold under my toes as I walk into the kitchen.
Sunlight’s pouring in from the big east-facing windows. The good kind. The kind that makes everything look cleaner than it is.
The yellow tile backsplash catches it first, glowing like it’s been scrubbed recently. It has. I stress-cleaned last weekend when my credit card bill made a guest appearance in my inbox.
I run my hand along the edge of the counter as I pass. It’s smooth—warm from the sun—and still slightly crooked if you squint, but a massive upgrade from what was here before. Dolly, my landlord, helped me replace it a few years ago after the old laminate started peeling like sunburn and threatening to slice open my forearm every time I reached for the toaster.
She didn’t even warn me. Just showed up one Saturday with a trunk full of clearance tile, a bucket of grout, and a can of Diet Dr. Pepper wedged under her armpit, yelling up from the sidewalk,“If I break something, it’s still technically an improvement!”
Apparently, my banana bread had impressed her. I made it once. Brought her a still-warm loaf when I dropped off rent, figuring it might soften the blow of my late payment. She called it“a reason to install real countertops,”and then refused to raise the rent the following year“on principle.”
“If I’m gonna keep charging you less than a parking space, you should at least have counters that don’t scream sad single man.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I open the cabinet beneath the sink and grab the dented stainless-steel kettle, the one with a melted handle from the time I forgot it was on and nearly set the kitchen on fire.
I fill it and set it on the stove, flicking the burner on with my knuckle. Gas clicks, catches.
The apartment hums. Quiet fridge buzz. Pipes murmuring in the walls.
I pull my favorite mug down from the open shelf, the one Grandma gave me when I got the bank job. Bright pink letters:I drink coffee for your protection.It wobbles slightly when I set it down. Still works. Still mine.
While the water heats, I pop open the sliding balcony door. It sticks like always. I lean into it with my hip until it gives with a soft clunk, then I step out.
My herb garden on the old metal shelf I salvaged from a yard sale last summer is actually thriving for once. It’s wedged into the far corner of the balcony where the sun hits hardest in the mornings. Half a dozen mismatched pots and repurposed takeout containers lined up like little green soldiers. The basil smells like summer memories I don’t entirely trust, the rosemary like Grandma’s Sunday dinners, back when she still cooked with both feet planted and not from a stool.
I crouch down and pinch a few dead leaves from the thyme, then water the spinach I planted on a whim last month. It’s coming in lopsided but stubborn, like me. The cherry tomato plant’salready grown past the little trellis I zip-tied to the railing, and the cilantro is doing that dramatic thing where it bolts overnight like it’s in some kind of race.
A low, judgmental grunt pulls my attention to the left.
Gordo, the fat orange tabby from 2A, has somehow wedged himself onto the ledge beside my basil like he owns the lease. His tail flicks once, slow and unimpressed. He doesn’t move when I wave my hand in front of his face.
