7 p.m.
I was here from open to close.
I can finally go home.
Karen doesn’t like me. I don’t like her either. She’s a two-faced woman with a smile that never reaches her eyes. How she hasn’t been fired is beyond both my understanding and my willingness to investigate.
I feel it before she says anything. That tightening in the air. That subtle shift where everything becomes sharp.
“You know,” she says, voice sugar-sweet, “you kind of remind me of someone.”
I stop walking.
“A former client of Bob’s,” she continues casually, like she isn’t holding a knife behind her back.
There it is.
Not good.
My stomach flips—sharp, nauseating—but underneath it is something else. Relief. Cold and steady and grounding. Because finally. Finally, someone is saying the quiet part out loud.
Karen tilts her head. “When did you start becoming a therapist, Jenny?”
“Jennifer,” I correct.
She steps a little closer. The office door behind her is still halfway open. Cowardly. Strategic.
“I just don’t remember seeing your credentials anywhere,” she says. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“I find nothing about this amusing,” I reply.
Her smile tightens. “You know, impersonating a licensed professional is very serious. That could get you arrested, honey.”
“Yes,” I say calmly. “So is harassment. It can also get you arrested.”
Her eyes flash. Just for a second.
Then—
“Leave her alone, Karen, before I tell management about the incident.”
Another voice. Firm. Familiar.
An older woman steps into the lobby, purse hooked over her arm like a weapon she knows how to use.
Oh my god.
It’s Vicki.
I love Vicki.
Platonically. I love her platonically.
Vicki is a veteran therapist. She knows everyone who works here. She remembers every client. Every scandal. Every whispered hallway secret. If this building has a memory, it lives in her bones.
Karen stiffens. “I don’t know what you think you heard—”
“I heard enough,” Vicki says pleasantly. Dangerously. “Run along.”
Karen’s smile doesn’t survive that. She mutters something about “just asking questions” and retreats.
The air loosens. I realize my shoulders were up by my ears.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I slip toward the exit.
“Have a good night, Jennifer!” Vicki calls out warmly.
My chest tightens in a way that hurts, but gently.
I make it to my car before everything collapses.
I sit in the driver’s seat, keys still in my hand, and just… breathe.
I did it. I survived the day. I wasn’t arrested. No one cried excessively. Karen did not win.
I drive home on autopilot, the city blurring past until the noise fades and the familiar quiet of my apartment settles over me like a blanket.
Inside, I kick off my shoes. Drop my bag. The silence is so complete it rings.
I sink onto the couch and stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I will come back.
I don’t know why.
But I will.
I close my eyes—just for a couple minutes—
—and then something jumps on me and sits directly on my face.
I groan, my voice completely muffled by fur. “Cheddar… get your fat ass off my face.”
He does not.
He settles instead. Fully. Decisively. Like this was his plan all along.
I crack one eye open. All I can see is orange. So much orange. Warm. Dense. Unmoving.
Cheddar purrs.
The sound vibrates through my skull.
“This is not an appropriate place to sit,” I say, but it comes out as “mrrphh is no apprrrphh pfff.”
He presses down harder.
I let my arms fall to my sides. This is my life now. Suffocated by a creature who cannot pay rent and yet owns everything.
“Cheddar,” I try again. “I had a day.”
He kneads my chest like I am dough that has personally wronged him.
I sigh. The tension finally drains out of me, slow and heavy. My thoughts loosen. The world narrows to the weight of a cat and the steady rhythm of his purring.
Fine.
If this is how I go, at least it’s quiet.
I close my eyes again.
Just for a couple minutes.
...Okay. I’m hungry.
“Cheddar,” I say carefully. “Please get off my face so I can order food.”
…
He does not move.
Instead, he shifts his weight slightly. My glasses dig into the bridge of my nose.
This is an attack.
“My glasses are hurting my face,” I add, in case that helps.
It does not.
I sigh and gently push Cheddar off me. He rolls onto my chest, then the couch, landing with a soft thump. He stares at me like I have personally betrayed him.
“Sorry, kitty,” I say.
He flicks his tail. Once. Violently.
I sit up and rub my face, adjusting my glasses. Everything aches in the low, dull way that comes from existing too long.
Cheddar hops down, circles once, and sits with his back to me. His posture radiates judgment.
I pick up my phone.
Food delivery app.
The screen is too bright. I squint.
“Okay,” I murmur. “What do we want?”
Cheddar does not respond.
“Fine,” I say. “What do I want.”
I think I'll order from that noodle restaurant Haley was talking about during lunch today. If I can remember what it was....
—ah yes.
Dragon Wok.
I remember because Haley had leaned over the counter and whispered it like she was sharing classified information. “Get the lo mein. Trust me.” Haley has not betrayed me yet, statistically speaking.
I scroll until I find it. There it is. Red logo. Too many menu options. Immediately overwhelming.
Cheddar hops back onto the couch beside me, very pointedly not touching me. His back is still turned. This grudge may last days.
“Okay,” I say aloud, because silence feels louder somehow. “Noodles.”
The menu loads slowly. I stare at it with the same intensity I reserve for threatening emails and tax forms.
Lo mein. Chow fun. Rice noodles. Egg noodles. Thick noodles. Thin noodles. Why are there this many noodles. Who decided this was acceptable.
My brain starts buffering.
Cheddar glances over his shoulder. Judges me.
“I am under a lot of pressure,” I tell him.
He blinks once. Unmoved.
I tap lo mein. Chicken. That feels safe. Predictable. Reliable. I consider adding dumplings, then remember that dumplings are a commitment and I do not have the emotional energy to commit right now.
I pause at the checkout screen.
My thumb hovers.
This is it. The last decision of the day. If I make another one, I may simply dissolve.
I press Order.
Done.
I set my phone face-down and lean back into the couch. My spine cracks in a way that feels medically unnecessary.
Cheddar finally turns and hops back onto my lap, curling into a tight, warm loaf like nothing happened. Like he didn’t try to assassinate me earlier.
“I forgive you,” I tell him. “Because you are soft.”
He purrs.
I close my eyes again. This time on purpose. Not for long. Just until the food arrives.
Tomorrow will come whether I’m ready or not.
But right now?
Right now there will be noodles.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.