There's something about unpaid bills that makes them feel heavier than paper.
They're not just envelopes anymore. They're pressure. Fear. Shame. Every time I glance at the cluttered kitchen counter, the pile seems taller, like it's mocking me, multiplying overnight, feeding on my anxiety. Electricity. Rent. Credit card minimums. Even the internet bill is past due, which feels like a joke.
How am I supposed to apply for jobs without Wi-Fi?
I sit on the edge of my couch. Well, our couch. The secondhand one my boyfriend Liam salvaged from a street corner. I tried not to cry that day.
The apartment is a mess, but I don't have the energy to fix it. Paint-stained rags litter the floor from Liam's latest project. Dishes pile in the sink. There's a smell in the air somewhere between acrylic and despair.
Liam is still asleep in the other room, curled up in our tiny bed like the world isn't on fire. I envy him for that. For the way he can disappear into his dreams while I lie awake at night, staring at the water-stained ceiling, wondering what I'm doing wrong.
I rub my hands down my face, trying to shake off the kind of exhaustion that burrows into your bones. The kind that comes from not knowing.
Not knowing if I'll make rent.
Not knowing if I'll ever land a job.
Not knowing if my degree means anything at all in the real world.
I always believed hard work would pay off. Stay out of trouble, keep your grades up, and play by the rules. Eventually, life rewards you. That's what they tell you, right? But reality isn't kind to girls like me. Girls from quiet, forgotten suburbs with big dreams and no connections.
My parents want me to come home. Back to the sleepy neighborhood in rural Pennsylvania where everyone knows each other and life moves slower. But going back would feel like a failure. Like giving up on the very thing I fought so hard for to be in New York.
The city of dreams. Of miracles.
Of people who start with nothing and make everything.
And yet, here I am.
Twenty-two.
Recently graduated.
No job. No interviews.
Just a degree that feels more like a reminder of what I'm failing to become.
I reach for my phone and open my email again, my heart pounding like it always does when I check for responses. I've lost count of how many applications I've sent. Dozens every week. Administrative assistant. Junior analyst. Receptionist. Data entry. Barista. Even cleaning jobs.
Anything. Anything I can get my hands on.
Another rejection.
Another "we regret to inform you..."
Another silence.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
God, please just something. Anything. I can't keep doing this.
A part of me hates that I still have hope. Hope has become a cruel thing. A slow drip of poison that keeps me trying, even when everything in me screams to give up.
My dreams aren't even extravagant. Just a clean apartment. A stable income. A life where I don't wake up panicked.
Is that too much?
The morning sun filters through the broken blinds, casting dusty rays across the floor. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. There's not much in the fridge just a half-empty carton of milk and a questionable apple.
It's nearly 9 AM.
Liam will be up soon, and I don't want him to see me like this. He tries, he really does. He paints in his spare time and sometimes manages to sell pieces at street fairs or online. But it's not enough. It's never enough.
I feel the tears press against my eyes, hot and uninvited. I wipe them away quickly, furious at myself for being weak. For not holding it together. For still believing that maybe, just maybe, today could be different.
My phone buzzes.
Subject: Interview Invitation, Duckknight Enterprises
I nearly drop it. My heart leaps into my throat.
I stare at the screen, not blinking. Not breathing.
Duckknight Enterprises.
The name is practically a legend in the city known for its impossible standards, its cutthroat hiring process, and the reclusive billionaire who owns it.
Damian Duckknight.
I don't know much about him only that he's cold, private, and terrifyingly powerful. The kind of man whose gaze could freeze blood. The kind of man who probably doesn't know what it means to struggle.
The email is brief. But it's real:
Ms. Carter,
You are invited for an in-person interview for the role of Executive Receptionist.
Please report to Duckknight Tower at 10:00 AM. Tomorrow.
Regards,
Human Resources
I reread it three times before it sinks in.
Executive Receptionist?
That's not the job I applied for. I remember applying for a cleaning position something low-level, anything to get my foot in the door.
But this, this is the kind of role people fight over. The kind that pays well. Offers benefits. Opens doors to careers I only dream about.
Maybe they liked my resume. Maybe someone took a chance.
My fingers tremble as I set the phone down.
Tomorrow.
I have an interview tomorrow.
I'm not ready. I don't even have proper shoes. Just scuffed black pumps I wore to my graduation. No blazer. No tailored skirt. No sleek bag. Just me.
But for the first time in weeks, I feel something.
Not quite relief.
Not even hope.
Just possibility.
A flicker. A heartbeat. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, the story isn't over yet.
I stand up and look around the apartment.
It's still small. Still messy. Still suffocating.
But tomorrow, I'll walk into a skyscraper with my head held high.
And maybe is the day everything changes or the day everything falls apart.