The sun is starting to dip when I finally get back to my studio apartment. Calling it that—studio—feels almost generous. It's a single cramped room with beige walls that still smell faintly of old paint, and a small kitchenette that buzzes when the fridge kicks in. But today, something feels different. I toe off my shoes, set my bag down, and instead of collapsing straight into bed like I usually do, I start to clean.
I don't know what gets into me. Maybe it's Noah's words still echoing in my mind, or maybe it's just the fact that tomorrow I'm starting something new. A job. A routine. A strange kind of hope. It feels wrong to let this small place stay the way it's been—stagnant, neglected, half-alive like me.
So I pick up a cloth and start wiping the surfaces. I wash the dishes that have been sitting in the sink since last week. I fold the clothes scattered across the floor and shove the dusty suitcase they came in back under the bed. The longer I move, the more a strange kind of energy builds inside me—restless, brittle, but persistent.
Then I start rearranging things. A box of old sketchbooks gets moved closer to the table. I clear a corner to set up a proper workspace, stacking my markers and pencils in an old mug. It's not much, but it's mine—now that everything is gone.
And then I see it again—my phone, glowing faintly as it charges. The latest model from one of the most expensive brands. It looks so out of place here, like a piece from another world. Which, in a way, it is. Back then, I always had the newest version the moment it was released. I didn't even think about it—just another casual luxury among the many I lived with. Heated bathroom tiles. Imported coffee pods. A closet that buzzed open when I approached. Unimportant things.
Now I stare at the sleek black screen and wonder how long before I'll have to sell it. My savings are shrinking fast. Pay studio rent, mom's hospital care, meals, busway, and other unexpected expenses. When the time comes, maybe I'll trade it in for something basic and durable, something that doesn't scream who I used to be.
I pull open a drawer and find my old watch. Gold-toned, engraved with the Evergreen Palace logo on the back—our real estate empire's name. Or what used to be. That same logo once gleamed above glass lobbies and wrapped around gift boxes at our annual galas. Now it's just a bitter reminder.
My hand brushes against an old envelope, and inside it, the newspaper clipping. I unfold it carefully, even though the edges are already worn soft with how many times I've looked at it. The headline screams up at me in bold black font:
"Evergreen Palace Crumbles: CEO Arrested in Multi-Billion Scandal"
There's a photo beneath it—my father being led away in handcuffs. His face is calm. Not defiant, not broken. Just quiet, like he always was in the worst moments. I remember standing by the staircase when he turned back one last time before getting into the car with the authorities. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Not that I wanted to hear anything from him when I was too shocked.
I stare at the clipping for a long while before I reach for a piece of tape and stick it to the wall above my desk. It doesn't match anything else here, but I want it there. Need it there. As a reminder.
Not to wallow in pain—but to remember. To remind myself that this isn't over. It was never fair. My dad wasn't the only one responsible. There were others—board members, partners, so-called family friends—who twisted facts, fed the media lies, and watched our fall like it was sport.
And where were all those people who used to greet us with warm smiles and expensive gifts? Where was that cousin who used to beg for loans and thank us with empty praise? Where were the friends who spent weekends at our villa, drinking wine on the terrace?
Gone. All of them. Like smoke in the wind. Of course. What did I expect from sycophants like them? Jokes on me when I thought they would help me when I was at my lowest.
I lost more than a name and a fortune. I lost a future. I lost the sense that the world had any kind of order or justice. I lost myself. And still, the only one behind bars is my father.
I look at the wall again. The clipping stares back at me, stark and sharp. Yet, my insecure self sees it as a mocking stare.
"I will get it back," I whisper. My voice is hoarse, but steady. "Not just the money. The truth. The power to decide what's fair."
I slump onto the edge of my bed, still breathing hard from all the movement and dust. My hands are raw from scrubbing, and there's a blister forming on one of my fingers. But for once, the ache feels earned.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up and walk into The Persona like I belong. I'll learn how to make coffee, clean tables, smile at customers. I'll work the machine, memorize the orders, fold the aprons at the end of the day. I'll find something solid under my feet again—even if it's just a tiled cafe floor. I'll try to find myself again, either the one I lost or the new me.
It's not the life I imagined. But maybe it's the one I need right now.
I rest my head against the wall. There's still too much pain inside me, twisting like a knife. Some mornings, I wake up and forget where I am. Some nights, I dream I'm back in my old room, and when I open my eyes, the cheap ceiling light reminds me it was all a lie.
But today—just today—I did something. I showed up. I said yes to something small.
That's a start. I hope so.