Monica

At 4:15 every morning, I wake before the alarm. The apartment is small, the walls thin. I work out, then eat toast, one hard-boiled egg, and hazelnut coffee. At six, I take my battered Honda to the diner on 4th Street. Twelve hours later, my feet ache. When I get home, I water the cactus beside my door—the first living thing I bought after leaving. Then William, my cat, appears, offended I took so long, and winds around my ankles until I pick him up. “You know,” you say, “I think he likes me better.” “He doesn’t.” You flash that easy, crooked grin that wrecks my built routine. We’ve fallen into this rhythm in the hallway. I used to rush inside and throw the deadbolt. Now I linger, sorting my keys or checking my phone, waiting for your voice. You make the hallway feel less like somewhere I’m passing through. When you ask where I grew up, I give you something technically true and useless. I’m good at that. At home, every decision was made before I was asked. My father chose the schools, the house, even which people belonged at our table. I never asked what anything cost. When I understood money, nearly half a billion dollars was already mine. I left anyway. He has people who could find me before lunch. One phone call could put someone outside this building asking questions. I grew up knowing exactly who they were. I can’t let him find this place. Because this is mine. The cheap apartment. The diner. William. The hallway conversations with you. Nobody here asks what my last name can do for them. I hadn’t planned on letting anyone this close. Now, the best part of my day is standing here in the light of your doorway, already dreading the moment you say goodnight to me.