1
CHANTEL
The paintbrush slips from my fingers and hits the hardwood with a wet splat, leaving a streak of cerulean blue across the floor that immediately blends into the existing chaos of dried paint splatters, crumpled sketches, and what I'm pretty sure is last Tuesday's coffee mug growing something sentient.
I'm still staring at the eviction notice, my eyes tracing the same damning words over and over again as though repetition might somehow change their meaning, when the pounding starts again, harder this time, more insistent, accompanied by what sounds like Mr. Abernathy's shoe connecting with the wooden door frame. The sound jolts me from my frozen stupor, my fingers instinctively curling tighter around the crumpled paper until I'm practically strangling it.
"Ms. Evans, I know you're in there!" My landlord's voice carries through the door with the kind of righteous fury that only comes from someone who's been dodging rent checks for three consecutive months. "We need to discuss your?—"
"I know, Mr. Abernathy, Iknow," I call back, my voice cracking in that high-pitched way that screams 'unhinged artiston the edge.' I'm clutching the notice so hard the paper's starting to crinkle and tear at the edges. The red letters seem to pulse with each beat of my racing heart.FINAL NOTICE. VACATE PREMISES WITHIN 7 DAYS.
Seven days. That's how long I have before everything I own, every canvas, every half-finished painting, every squeezed-dry tube of cadmium yellow and titanium white, every scrap of my life that I've carefully accumulated in this tiny, crumbling apartment, gets dumped unceremoniously on the curb like the world's absolute saddest garage sale, complete with a "free to a good home" sign that no one will actually take me up on because, let's be honest, most of my possessions are either paint-stained, broken, or both. Seven days. to somehow conjure up not just a solution, but a miracle. Seven days. to find a roommate, collect first and last month's rent, and convince Mr. Abernathy that I'm not just another flaky artist who'll disappear into the night without paying what I owe. Which, granted, is not entirely untrue, but also not the point right now.
The pounding stops. I hear his heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, and I know exactly what that means. He's not giving up. He's going to come back with the building manager, or worse, actual police officers who will stand there with their arms crossed while I try to explain that yes, Iama real working artist, and no, exposure doesn't actually pay rent, and also could someone please tell the universe to stop kicking me while I'm already face-down in the dirt?
I slump against the door and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, my paint-splattered overalls bunching around my knees. The apartment stretches out in front of me like a crime scene of failed adulting. Canvases are stacked three-deep against every available wall. My makeshift desk, which is actually just a vintage door balanced on milk crates, is buried under layers of sketches, dried-out paint tubes, and approximately seventeendifferent coffee cups in various stages of abandonment. The kitchen sink is full of brushes I keep meaning to clean. The couch is currently serving as both my bed and my laundry hamper because my actual bedroom has been converted into studio space.
And my roommate? My absolutely useless, rent-dodging, emotionally manipulative disaster of a roommate who swore up and down she was "good for it this month"?
Gone.
Vanished sometime between midnight and dawn, taking her half of the rent money, my good set of paintbrushes, and apparently my last shred of faith in humanity. She left behind a sticky note on the bathroom mirror that just said "sry lol" with a little heart drawn next to it, which honestly might be the most insulting part of this entire catastrophe.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I fish it out of my pocket and immediately wish I hadn't. Three new notifications, all from the online art marketplace where I've been desperately trying to sell literally anything that might keep me housed and fed.
LISTING EXPIRED: "Abstract Cityscape #4"
LISTING EXPIRED: "Morning Light Study"
PRICE REDUCTION SUGGESTED: "Portrait of My Landlord as a Medieval Plague Demon"
That last one was a joke listing. Well, half joke. I actually did paint Mr. Abernathy as a rotting medieval plague doctor, but I didn't think the algorithm would pick it up and start recommending I slash the price to move inventory faster. Apparently, even the automated systems think my work isn't worth what I'm asking.
I drop my phone and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to think. I'm a problem solver. I'm creative. I can figure this out.
Except I can't.
I've already called everyone I know. My parents stopped returning my "emergency" calls after the fourth time I promised I'd "definitely get a real job soon." My college friends are either struggling just as hard as I am or have sold out to corporate design firms and won't even look at my messages anymore. My ex won't talk to me because I may have accidentally implied his new girlfriend looked like a potato during our last conversation, which in my defense, she absolutely does, but apparently that's "inappropriate" and "borderline stalking" when you say it on their engagement photos.
The gallery that was supposed to feature my work next month just sent an email this morning saying they're "going in a different direction," which is art-world code for "your stuff isn't trendy enough and also we found someone with more Instagram followers."
I'm out of options. I'm completely, thoroughly out of options. There's nowhere left to turn, no one else to call, no more strings I can pull without looking absolutely pathetic. I'm out of time too, the eviction notice is sitting on my kitchen counter like a ticking bomb, and the deadline is less than a week away now. I've done the math a dozen times, hoping somehow the numbers would magically shift in my favor, but they haven't. They won't. I'm out of everything except paint fumes and spite, the two things I seem to have in endless supply. My tiny studio apartment reeks of turpentine and old acrylic, and honestly, the spite is the only thing keeping me upright at this point. It's the only thing fueling me forward when every other part of my brain is screaming that I should just give up, pack my things, and move back home where at least my mother would stop asking me when I'm going to do something "practical" with my life.
My laptop sits on the floor next to an empty cereal bowl and a stack of overdue bills I've been using as a mousepad. I flip it open and wait for it to wheeze to life, the fan making a grindingsound that suggests it's just as close to giving up as I am. The screen glows pale blue in the afternoon light filtering through my paint-splattered windows.
I pull up the roommate finder website I've been avoiding for weeks because finding a stranger to live with always feels like playing Russian roulette with your personal safety and sanity. The last three roommates I've had ranged from "passive-aggressive note-leaver who labeled all her food with threatening messages" to "guy who collected taxidermy mice and talked to them like children" to, most recently, "she-devil paint-brush thief who bailed in the middle of the night."
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I am so far past desperate I'm practically in a different zip code, I'm operating in some kind of alternate dimension where eviction notices are real and my bank account is a number I actively avoid looking at. The rent is due in seven days. Seven. I've counted them obsessively on my calendar, circling the date in red marker like that somehow makes it less terrifying. My landlord has already sent two emails, each one progressively more threatening, the last one containing the phrase "legal action" in bold letters. I don't even know what that means in practical terms, but it sounds expensive and complicated and like exactly the sort of thing that would require me to call my mother, which is absolutely not happening. So here I am, staring at my laptop screen like it's going to magic up a solution, ready to post the most desperate roommate ad ever written to the internet and hope that whoever responds is at least marginally less chaotic than I am.
I click "Create New Listing" and my fingers hover over the keyboard. What am I even supposed to say? "Wanted: Roommate Who Won't Steal My Stuff or Murder Me, Preferably Someone With Money Who Doesn't Mind Living in Organized Chaos?"
No. Too wordy. Too honest. The desperation practically bleeds through the screen, and I can already imagine the kinds of responses that would attract—people looking to exploit a vulnerable situation, or worse, people with genuinely questionable intentions who see an all-caps plea as an open invitation.
I delete it and start typing again, forcing myself to take a breath and sound at least minimally composed, even if I'm anything but.
"ROOMMATE WANTED: Spacious two-bedroom in desirable neighborhood. Artist seeking responsible, respectful housemate. Immediate move-in available. References required.
No, that's too formal. That sounds like I'm advertising a luxury penthouse instead of a place where I've been known to use my kitchen sink as a drying rack for wet canvases. I backspace furiously, my fingers trembling slightly as I try to strike some kind of balance between honest and not-completely-terrifying.
