Stirring awake, I stared at the ceiling and immediately regretted existing.
Not in a dramatic, life-is-meaningless kind of way.
More in a five more minutes wouldn't hurt anyone kind of way.
My blanket was warm. My bed was comfortable. My responsibilities were… unfortunately still real.
I considered my options carefully.
Option one: go back to sleep and risk being late.
Option two: get up and face reality like a functioning member of society.
…Dammit.
I chose option two.
Barely.
My stomach growled the moment I made that decision, as if applauding my courage. Or threatening me. Hard to tell.
"Alright, alright," I muttered, dragging myself upright. "I get it. Food first, dignity later."
The apartment greeted me with silence.
Not peaceful silence. Not comforting silence.
The kind that felt like the walls were just… waiting.
Waiting for what, I didn't know. Probably for me to clean them.
The place smelled faintly of dust and old wood, like it had given up on being lived in and wanted to retire. Living alone didn't help. My only parent was overseas, doing important things in places I couldn't even pronounce properly, and the other…
Well.
Cancer wasn't exactly known for leaving happy endings.
I didn't dwell on it. Not because I was strong or emotionally mature.
But because I was hungry.
Priorities.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood up, stretching just enough to convince myself I wasn't already regretting my decision. My joints cracked in protest.
"Yep," I nodded. "Aging. It's happening."
I was definitely too young to say that.
Didn't stop me though.
The bathroom light flickered on after a brief moment of hesitation, like it was judging whether I deserved illumination.
I stepped up to the mirror and stared at my reflection.
Messy brown hair. Not stylish messy either. Just a full-on bird's nest messy.
Dark eyes. The kind that people called "mysterious" when they were being polite and "depressed" when they weren't.
Face? Average.
Painfully, aggressively average.
The kind of face you'd forget five minutes after looking away. Which, to be fair, had its advantages. Hard to embarrass yourself publicly when no one remembered you existed.
I leaned closer, squinting.
"Yeah," I decided. "Ten out of ten. I look spectacular."
Cold water hit my face a second later, shocking me into something resembling wakefulness. I inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly as the last remnants of sleep clung desperately to my consciousness before finally giving up.
Alive yet another day.
I shuffled into the kitchen.
And immediately stopped.
There it was.
The mountain.
Dishes stacked in the sink like a monument to my poor life choices. Plates, cups, utensils—some of them so old I was pretty sure they were developing personalities.
A roach scurried across the counter.
I made eye contact with it.
It paused.
I paused.
We both silently acknowledged each other's existence… and then mutually agreed to pretend this wasn't happening.
"Don't touch my food," I told it.
It didn't respond.
I took it as compliance.
I grabbed a pan, poured in some oil, and turned the stove on. It hissed softly, heating up as I leaned against the counter and pulled out my phone.
The morning news began playing automatically.
"Good morning, citizens of Ashford," the anchor chirped, far too cheerful for someone who was clearly awake at this hour by choice. "Today will be an exceptional day as temperatures reach seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Expect clear skies and mild winds."
I frowned.
"Exceptional?" I muttered.
What, was the sky planning to do a backflip?
Was it going to rain money?
Were we finally getting invaded by aliens?
…Actually, that last one might qualify.
The oil sizzled, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Right. Eggs."
I cracked two into the pan, watching as they spread and bubbled. A bit of stirring later, and I had something that resembled scrambled eggs. Not restaurant quality, not even home-cooked meal your mom is proud of quality, but edible.
Which, frankly, was all I needed.
I shoveled the food into my mouth with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in… several hours.
Tragic, really.
Still, warmth spread through me, pushing back the last bits of grogginess. My brain started functioning again.
I rinsed the plate—rinsed, not washed. Let's not get ahead of ourselves—and dropped it into the sink with the rest of its fallen comrades.
"I'll clean later," I promised.
The dishes did not believe me.
Honestly, neither did I.
Back in my room, I threw on a white t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. Simple. Efficient. Hard to mess up.
Which was important, because I absolutely would if given the chance.
I grabbed my backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and did a quick mental checklist.
Phone?
Check.
Wallet?
Check.
Keys?
…Check.
I patted my pockets again.
Just to be sure.
Then a third time.
Because paranoia builds character.
"Alright," I exhaled, walking to the door. "Another day in this boring city. Love it."
I opened it.
The hallway lights flickered overhead like they were on their last leg. The air smelled faintly of something burnt, something damp, and something that should probably be reported to authorities.
I stepped out and locked the door behind me, giving it a firm tug.
It held.
Good.
At least something in my life was reliable.