"Should I just give it to charity?" Elira muttered as she stared at the stack of cash lying in front of her on the bed. It sat there innocently, crisp and bound in neat stacks—$3,000 in clean $100 bills. Like it hadn't come from a night she barely remembered. Like it wasn't quietly taunting her.
She stood frozen with her hand still gripping the edge of her wardrobe door. She was in the middle of looking for her blouse—the pale blue one she liked to wear to interviews because it made her look slightly less tired and a little more put-together. But instead, she found the envelope. Hidden between a stack of old clothes and a shoebox she hadn't touched in months.
A tight sigh left her lips. Elira sat down on the edge of the bed, the blouse forgotten in her hand as her eyes remained fixed on the cash. The memory of that morning a month ago came crawling back in unwanted detail.
She had woken up in an unfamiliar hotel room. Her head pounding, mouth dry, stomach churning—not from alcohol, but from dread. The room was dark and quiet—fancy in that way you just feel, even without flipping the lights on. The sheets were silky. The pillows were feathered. And her clothes? Scattered somewhere across the floor.
She kind of remembered being at the bar. From the look of things, she'd clearly gone home with someone—but how they ended up in a hotel like this? No clue.
She half-expected to see the guy still passed out next to her, but the bed was empty. She called out a quick "hello," but no one answered—yeah, he was definitely gone.
But on the sleek nightstand beside the bed, just within reach, was an envelope. And in it—cash. Three thousand dollars.
Along with a note scribbled in sharp, slanted writing: Hope this helps —KA.
She'd stared at that note for what felt like hours. Hope this helps? What was she—some kind of pity project? Or worse... was this payment?
At the time, she had grabbed the money and left in a blur. Shame had bloomed in her chest like a toxic weed ever since. She couldn't bring herself to spend a single dollar of it. Every time she looked at it, she felt dirty. It made everything real. It made her feel like she'd sold her body. Like she was an escort and didn't even know it.
Elira scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. "Sure, give it to charity... Then I can feel holy."
She shoved the envelope back where it belonged—wedged deep behind a pile of winter sweaters—and slammed the wardrobe door shut. She clenched her blouse in one hand and looked at herself in the tiny mirror. Pale. Blank. Not impressed.
"One job interview. Just one decent job, please," she whispered to herself, forcing a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes.
—
Twenty minutes later, she stepped into the café just down the street from her apartment. The smell of freshly baked bread and buttery pastries wrapped around her like a warm hug. Normally, this place was her favorite.
Today? It hit her like a brick wall.
"Oh, God," Elira muttered, one hand flying up to her nose. Her stomach flipped, and that awful, dizzy kind of nausea hit her out of nowhere.
The cozy scent of cinnamon rolls, warm croissants, and toasted bagels that used to make her mouth water now made her gag. Her throat tightened. She stumbled back a step, almost bumping into someone.
"Sorry," she mumbled quickly, already turning for the door.
The cool air outside hit her like a blessing. She leaned against the brick wall of the building, sucking in shaky breaths.
"Okay... what the hell was that?" she whispered. "I'm not hungover. Didn't drink last night. So why..."
Her stomach gurgled unpleasantly. The thought of food made her want to hurl, but her body also screamed for energy. She was dizzy and tired and irritated—and she hadn't even made it to her interview yet.
Sighing, Elira pushed herself off the wall and headed to the nearest convenience store. She wasn't about to pass out from hunger before a job interview.
The overhead lights buzzed like hell as she walked in, the automatic doors sliding shut with a soft hiss behind her. The chill from the air conditioning gave her goosebumps. She moved slowly through the aisles, avoiding the hot food section and beelining for the fridge.
A sandwich and a bottle of milk. Plain, simple. Something her body could hopefully tolerate.
She turned toward the cashier but stopped as she passed the hygiene aisle. Rows and rows of brightly colored tampon boxes and sanitary pads lined the shelves. She paused, staring blankly for a moment before her brows drew together.
"Wait a second..."
She tilted her head and frowned. When was the last time?
Elira tried to count backward, tracing days in her mind like flipping through a foggy calendar. Her period was never clockwork regular, but this late?
Her fingers tightened around the plastic sandwich container.
"No. No way," she whispered.
She shook her head and stepped away quickly, half-laughing at herself. "Don't be crazy. That's not—no. Just stress. That's all."
But instead of heading to the cashier, her feet betrayed her. They turned and carried her down another aisle—the one marked "Health & Wellness."
She stood there for a moment, staring at the shelf. The box practically glared back at her. Bright pink, bold letters. Pregnancy Test.
Elira bit her lip, heart starting to pound.
"You have got to be kidding me," she said under her breath.
Still... her hand reached out.
She picked up the box slowly, staring at it like it might explode. For a long moment, she stood frozen.
Then she exhaled, clutched the test to her chest, and turned away down the aisle.