I lean forward, mic close enough to feel my own breath bounce back at me. I clear my throat, swallow the last ghost of embarrassment, and let myself sink back into character. I don’t think about the bills piling up at home, or the eviction noticetaped to my door. I don’t think about the dead silence after I stop recording, or how cold my bed is at night.
For the next five minutes, I’m not Zatanna with chipped nail polish and empty cupboards. I’m every desperate fantasy, every breathless confession, and every voice some stranger out there wants to hear in the dark.
By the time I finish, my voice is wrecked and my cheeks are flushed. Jake’s still grinning like an idiot. “You really save my ass, Zee. Those last three clients? You’re the only reason they’re still on the books.”
I manage a tired smile. “Glad someone appreciates me.”
He waves a hand. “Go home. Rest that golden throat.”
I pack up my stuff and head out of the studio. Well, calling it a “studio” is a joke. It’s the kind of place you only find if you’re desperate—three floors up in a building that probably hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the eighties, the elevator perpetually out of order, and the carpets sticky with the ghosts of a hundred shoes. The sign on the door reads “Starlight Productions,” but everyone knows it’s just a closet with a microphone, a secondhand laptop, and Jake, the self-proclaimed king of cheap erotica.
I lean against the battered counter as Jake fiddles with the audio files, humming off-key. I wait until he finally looks up, his eyes hopeful, almost boyish.
“Jake,” I start, twisting the strap of my bag. “Can we talk about my rate?”
His smile freezes just a little, but he recovers fast, like he’s had this conversation a hundred times before. “Oh, Zee, you knowI’d love to. Really. But things are tight right now. Streaming numbers are up, but advertisers, they’re impossible. You’re the best I got, but the market just isn’t there for a raise right now.”
I try not to let the desperation leak into my voice. “Jake, I’m barely making rent. My landlord’s about to change the locks. You told me last month if I picked up the weekend slots, you’d bump my rate.”
He gives me that look—pity, apology, and something sly, all wrapped together. “And I appreciate it, you know I do. But things haven’t picked up like I hoped. These stories? They sell, but not like the old days. Maybe next quarter, huh?”
I bite my tongue. I know the truth. Every time the numbers spike, Jake is the first to brag about his “genius business sense,” but the last to share any of it. He’ll buy himself a new watch before he gives me another ten bucks an hour.
He pats my shoulder, all friendly. “Hang in there, Zee. You’re a star. We’ll get through this. In the meantime, keep those recordings coming, yeah?”
I nod, forcing a smile that feels brittle. I grab my bag and step out into the hall, the door clicking behind me.
By the time I trudge home, Manhattan feels like it’s trying to spit me out. It’s almost midnight, the kind of late where all that’s left on the sidewalks are rats and regret. My building is five stories of crumbling brick, the stoop sticky with old gum and rain. There’s no doorman here, just the glow of a busted lightbulb and the ever-present whiff of stale takeout and city dreams gone sour.
On my door, there’s a slip of paper fluttering like a white flag—another note from my landlord, written in that angry, blocky script I could recognize in my sleep.
Final notice.
Rent overdue.
Payment expected by Friday or locks will be changed.
I stare at it, my mind blank, the words swimming as exhaustion seeps into my bones. I don’t even bother throwing it away. I just crumple it in my hand and toss it on the pile of other threats and warnings collecting on my kitchen counter.
My apartment is barely more than a closet. There’s a mattress pushed against one wall, a thrifted lamp with a faded floral shade, two windows with no view, and a kitchenette that wouldn’t look out of place in a dollhouse. I drop my bag, my keys, and my dreams in the same heap by the door and kick off my shoes, toes freezing against the warped linoleum.
My stomach growls—a hollow, ugly sound. I rummage through the cupboards and come up with a single packet of ramen, the last one. I don’t even bother boiling the water on the stove; I just fill it with hot tap water and hope for the best, huddling by the window in my oldest hoodie, knees pulled up to my chest as I wait for the noodles to get soft.
I try to eat, but the taste is nothing, just salt and chemicals, and I almost choke. It’s the thought of all the things I can’t fix that finally breaks me. The debt notices, the credit card bills, the grocery store receipts stacked like a losing hand. Rent is four days late…
And I have thirty-two dollars in my bank account.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, cursing myself for crying. I hate it. I hate feeling small, and hungry, and invisible. I hate that I’m twenty-seven and my biggest accomplishment this week is making strangers come with my voice.
The noodles are half-eaten, forgotten, as I drag my battered second-hand laptop onto the bed. The screen flickers to life, dim and blue, illuminating the clutter of my tiny world. I open every job board I know: Indeed, Glassdoor, LinkedIn, Craigslist, some weird new site called HiredHub that probably just wants to steal my identity. I scroll until my eyes blur, every posting a little more hopeless than the last.
Wanted: Virtual Assistant, four years’ experience, pays $13 an hour, must be available weekends and nights.
Receptionist, Midtown, temp-to-perm, pay “competitive” (read: minimum wage), must be bilingual, three years’ admin experience required.
I click through them all, copying and pasting my résumé, editing my cover letter, pretending for the hundredth time that I have “strong Excel skills” and “a passion for customer service.”
My phone pings, and it’s another text from my landlord.
