By the time I reached the bus station, my feet hurt, my shirt was clinging to my back, and my life was officially a joke.
I dropped onto the bench and buried my face in my wet hands. My throat felt tight.
Not the fun, dramatic kind of tight where you curse the world and flip everyone off. The kind where you feel stupid, and small, and… done.
I should've been angry. That's my default. But this time, it felt heavier. Like anger had burned itself out and left nothing but smoke.
Almost one year. That's how long I lasted at that job. One miserable year clawing my way into that stupid studio, kissing ass, pretending to care about blending powder for the human scarecrow that is Linda Kyle.
Do you know how hard it is to get a job in this city when you're not somebody's cousin, nephew, sugar baby, or secret love child?
When you're not a nepo baby with a silver spoon in your mouth and a trust fund in your back pocket, you have to crawl your way up.
It took me months. Months of begging, freelancing for free, dragging my kit through subways and stairwells, being told "no," of being laughed out of interviews. And just like that, it's gone.
I laughed, but it cracked halfway into something pathetic. "It's not their fault, I guess," I muttered. "I never even finished college. Just a dropout who couldn't afford tuition, couldn't land a scholarship, couldn't even fake being smart enough for student loans."
And the worst part? I was supposed to get paid this week. I should be online right now, adding shit to cart, waiting for packages I don't need but definitely want. Instead, my bank account looks like a funeral.
Not because I'm poor. Please. I worked for a celebrity. I was comfortable. Not private-jet comfortable, but "spontaneous Zara haul on a Tuesday" comfortable. I just… don't save. At all. Every paycheck gets reborn as new sneakers, new skincare, new jackets. I live for package notifications.
So now? Now I'm "broke." Not "selling-my-laptop" broke. Just "I'll be eating noodles until further notice" broke.
The words felt bitter on my tongue. "I lost my job, I'm broke, and now it's…"
The sky answered with a cold, hard slap of rain. Sheets of it. No warning.
Of course.
Rain kept pouring harder, soaking the bench, dripping down my back. I looked up at the gray sky and yelled, "You win! Okay? You win! Is this funny to you? Huh?"
People waiting at the station shifted away, giving me that look. The one reserved for the loud guy talking to himself like some unstable freak. I didn't care. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe they should all try living my life and see how sane they stayed.
I had no one to call. No one to tell. I'm twenty five years old tomorrow, and what do I have? No family….they're all gone. No bestie to trauma dump…I burned those bridges a long time ago.
Just me, and my old dog, Miso, who's probably on the couch right now waiting for me. She's sick, but she still perks up every time I come through the door like I'm worth something. Honestly, she deserves a better owner than this mess.
Twenty five years old, and I was still screaming at the sky like an angry child.
The rain blurred everything around me. That's probably why I didn't notice him at first. The man in the coat. He walked up quietly, and sat down beside me like he'd been there the whole time.
"Hard morning?" he asked quietly. His voice was low, soft.
I didn't even lift my head. I just scoffed. "What gave it away? The way I look miserable or that I'm yelling at the sky like a lunatic?"
He gave a low chuckle. "Life takes. Sometimes more than it gives. But it doesn't mean it stops offering."
I should've bit back, said something cunty. Normally, I would've. But my chest hurt too much. My throat burned like I might actually cry in front of a stranger.
Life's done taking from me. I don't have anything left.
So instead, I hunched my shoulders, muttered, "Yeah, well, life's a bitch. And so am I."
His hand rested casually on his knee, and on the pale skin of his wrist, just below the cuff of his coat, was a tattoo. A cupid's arrow. Small but sharp, the point inked so fine it almost glimmered.
It wasn't the design itself…..it was the placement. The arrowhead aimed down his vein like it was pointing straight at me.
For a second, I couldn't look away.
Something about it felt… off. Like I'd seen it before, in a dream, or a warning I didn't understand.
The bus lights appeared down the street, glowing in the rain, blinding me.
When I turned to finally glance at the man, maybe to roll my eyes properly, maybe to see who the hell thought they were my motivational speaker….he was gone. Just… gone.
No coat. No footsteps. No damp mark on the bench where he'd been sitting. Nothing but rain and me staring like an idiot.
Weird.
All that was left on the bench was a soaked brown notebook, water dripping off the edges.
I stared at it, frowning. "Seriously? Who leaves their junk in the rain?"
I picked it up. The ink on the cover was smeared but still readable. "Confessions of a Cunty Freshman."
I snorted weakly. "Wow. Even the universe writes bad titles."
For a second, I thought about chucking it into the trash. But then the bus stopped, the brakes squealed, the driver leaned out. "You getting on or not?"
I hesitated, the wet book was still in my hands heavy for no reason I could explain.
Throw it away, Benny. You don't need more trash.
But I shoved it into my bag instead, dripping pages and all, and climbed onto the bus.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
As I climbed the steps, I thought about the man, the voice, the tattoo, the way he disappeared.
Weird. But whatever. Probably just another crazy morning. Nothing surprises me anymore.
Not like it mattered.
Not like this book was about to change everything.