“Some men pay to be seen. Others pay so they don’t have to look at themselves.”


By now, I knew their names—but I never said them out loud. Not because I was scared. Because names made things personal. And nothing about this life could afford to be personal. Not if you wanted to stay sane.


I called them by who they were to me.


There was Mr. Envelope. He never spoke, never touched unless asked, and always left the cash tucked under the lamp like a hotel tip. He wore wedding rings like armor, kept his eyes on the ceiling, and once cried when I kissed his forehead. Just one tear. I didn’t ask why. I never do.


Then there was The Preacher. He came every other Sunday after church, wearing his collar under a jacket like that made it disappear. Always asked if I could call him "Father," and once whispered a prayer over my stomach. Said he saw something in me. I saw something in him, too—shame.


Big Mike was easy. Paid to talk. That’s it. Wanted to sit on the edge of the bed and tell me about his job, his kids, the wife who never touched him anymore. I gave him two hours for half the rate. Told him I liked his voice. He lit up like a boy on prom night.


The ones who scared me didn’t come back. They knew better. I learned to keep mace in my purse, a blade in my boot, and a look in my eyes that said Try me. I wasn't Keke, who flirted with danger. I was quiet. Quick. Transactional. I had a reputation—cold, but professional.


Some of the girls said I was lucky. I didn’t feel lucky.


At night, when I’d come home, I stripped everything off—makeup, clothes, emotion—and sat in front of my mirror. I’d count my cash, scrub my skin raw, and check the lock on my door three times.


I had a rule: I never let anyone in my house. Not just physically. Spiritually. Mentally. Emotionally. That space belonged to me. It was the only place I could breathe.


Still, sometimes I’d stare at my reflection too long and not recognize the woman staring back. She looked like she’d seen too much and smiled too little.


That’s when I’d pull out the red notebook again. Like church. Like therapy.


Step 1: Save $5,000.

Balance: $1,540.


Almost there. And yet, not even close.


The nights bled into each other. Rooms changed. Faces blurred. But the feeling? The hollowness? That stayed the same.


But then something unexpected happened.


I got a message from an old number.


“Nell? It’s Dee. From the old days. You still in the city? I got a room open in my salon if you tryna make moves.”


I stared at it for a long time.


I hadn’t heard from Dee since I was nineteen and we both got raided at a motel off Roosevelt. She got out, moved legit, opened a small beauty spot in Bronzeville.


I never thought she’d look back.


Maybe... this was it.


A window.


Small. Dirty. But open.