MIREYA
“First and last month’s rent,”the landlord said, handing me the lease. His voice sounded tired like he had said those same words a thousand times already. He was old, with a shiny bald head and a polo shirt that had sweat marks under both arms. “Sign here. And here. Then put your initials there.”
The apartment smelled faintly of old carpet mixed with lemon cleaner. I stood in the middle of the empty living room and slowly turned, trying to take everything in.
It was tiny and a far cry from Riven’s perfect penthouse.
But this one belonged to me.
I signed without hesitation. My hand moved across the paper as though my body knew what to do even if my heart lagged behind.
“You get the keys now.” He dropped them into my palm, metal cold against my skin. “If you run into issues, call the number on the papers. Water is covered. Electricity is yours.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He didn’t linger. He walked out and shut the door, and his footsteps echoed down the hallway until I couldn’t hear him anymore.
I had saved for three long weeks and stacked every bit of my earnings from the hospital and from caring for Emma to make this happen.
The plan had been simple and sensible. Save money. Find a place. Move out. Rebuild my life into something normal again.
But why did my chest feel like it had been run over by a ten-wheeler truck?
I walked to the window and pressed my hand to the glass. The alley outside looked gray and unfriendly. I could see a rusted dumpster sitting crooked in the corner, a small bike was chained to a metal fence, wheels squeaking in the breeze, and someone had painted graffiti in wild colors on the opposite wall.
This was life. This was ordinary. This was what people could afford without trust funds and penthouses.
No panoramic views of the city. No marble countertops gleaming under designer lighting. No rooms larger than most people's entire apartments.
Just this.
I should’ve been proud, enjoyed my growth and independence. But there was only this strange emptiness settling in my stomach.
I slid down to the floor and rested my back against the wall. My legs stretched out across the laminate flooring as I stared at the small window.
The apartment had no sound to fill the space. No Emma's laughter echoing from down the hall. No steady rhythm of Riven's morning routine. No quiet hum of expensive appliances or the distant pulse of a city that felt close enough to touch.
The silence pressed heavy on my chest, concrete-thick, reminding me of everything I'd walked away from and everything I wasn't allowed to say out loud.
I watched the afternoon light shift across the floor and tried convincing myself this was what I wanted. This was part of the plan, the smart choice, the responsible path forward.
But none of it settled right.
Eventually I stood, locked the door behind me, and took a bus to the hospital for my afternoon shift.
I was walking in the hallway when someone called after me.
“Mireya.”
I turned. August Cross stood there in his usual expensive suit and polished shoes, wearing that practiced smile that always made me tense.
“Mr. Cross,” I said.
“August,” he corrected gently. “Please.”
He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the building. “Have you had time to consider my offer?”
“I’m still thinking about it,” I said.
