“Some people wake up to alarms. I wake up to regret.”


The sun was already up by the time my eyes opened. Light slipped through the crooked blinds of my apartment like a nosy neighbor peeking in, judging everything. The air was stale with last night’s perfume, smoke, and secrets I didn’t have the energy to hide. My phone buzzed under the pillow—three texts, two missed calls. No names, just numbers. I already knew what they wanted.


I stretched, bones popping, body sore in places I didn’t have names for anymore. I sat up slowly, careful not to knock over the half-empty wine glass on the nightstand. My heels were still by the door. Lipstick-stained. Red. Always red. I wore it like armor.


The mirror across the room caught me off guard. Hair messy. Makeup smeared. A long, ugly bruise on my collarbone blooming like a violet. I looked like a ghost of myself. But ghosts don’t pay rent, and mine was due Friday.


I scrolled through the messages:


“U up?”

“Can I see u 2nite, same spot.”

“Got that deposit. U down or nah?”


I didn’t answer. Not yet. I needed to shower the night off me first. The water ran brown for a second—last night’s lashes and lies washing down the drain.


By the time I toweled off and threw on my robe, I’d made up my mind. I texted back one of the regulars. He wasn’t the worst. Quiet, paid on time, and never asked questions. A rarity.


10pm. Be clean. No talking. No touching my hair.

Bring the envelope.


He replied with a thumbs-up. Like this was normal. For me, I guess it was.


I made coffee, added too much creamer to kill the bitterness, and sat by the window. Outside, the city moved like it didn’t care who it swallowed. Kids ran to school. A woman walked her dog in gym clothes that probably cost more than my rent. And there I was, watching it all, somewhere between invisible and indecent.


I pulled out my notebook from the kitchen drawer. The red one. The one nobody knew about. I flipped to the page I’d marked with a paperclip.


“Step 1: Save $5,000.”

“Step 2: Get LLC for nail salon.”

“Step 3: Stop answering blocked numbers.”

“Step 4: Leave the city without saying goodbye.”


I was on Step 1. Again. Always Step 1. Something always pulled me back—bills, bruises, or that voice in my head saying: Girl, this is who you are.


But I didn’t believe it. Not today.


I put the notebook away and went to do my face. My war paint. Red lips, winged liner, lashes thick enough to block out everything I didn’t want to see. I looked into the mirror and practiced the smile. The one that made men think they had power. The one that said, Come closer—right before I took what I needed and disappeared.


The phone buzzed again.


“Change of plans. 9pm. Hotel Indigo. Room 314.”


I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed:


Double the rate or I’m out.


He agreed.


I sighed, picked up my purse, and reached for the small blade I kept inside. Just in case.


Another night. Another lie. But the difference was, I had a plan now.


And that made all the difference.