I barely register the flash of headlights before the screech of brakes sends me stumbling back, landing hard on the curb.
For a moment, everything stops. The car. The world. My breath.
A horn blares, sharp, indignant, echoing down the empty street. Headlights burn a white afterimage across my vision.
The cab's windows are black. No silhouette, no face. Just the hulking shape of the truck idling like it's thinking. My pulse won't settle. Gravel digs into my palms, and I decide getting up can wait another second.
The taillights fade down the street, leaving me alone with the smell of burnt rubber and the faint sprinkle falling of rain.
I don't know how long I sit there, palms stinging, knees shaking. I didn't remember seeing anything coming. Didn't even see the crosswalk. Didn't see anything.
The ridiculousness of it hits me all at once.
I almost died because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to pay attention to where the hell I was going.
A laugh slips out—half shock, half exhaustion. I wait for my hands to stop shaking before I say it out loud: "Almost got me there, Truck-kun." A nod to the isekai trope about trucks sending people to fantasy worlds. Like getting hit by a vehicle is a legitimate career change strategy.
The now empty street doesn't answer. Rain ticks against the pavement.
I rub my hands together, checking for blood or damage. My palms have little angry scratches from where they kissed the pavement but other than that, I'm intact. No blood, no broken bones. I'm fine. I'm fine.
I repeat it a few times until I almost believe it.
The air smells like wet pavement and ozone, and everything feels too sharp, like someone turned up the saturation on reality. Colors too bright. Sounds too clear. My body humming with leftover adrenaline that has nowhere to go.
I almost died.
And my first thought was how I'd explain it to work.
That's… Not great.
The laugh this time is quieter, smaller. I push myself upright, brush off my clothes, and start walking. The adrenaline's fading, leaving behind that floaty, hollow feeling I get after too many late nights and skipped meals. My body's moving, but my mind's still kneeling back there on the curb.
Maybe that's why the thoughts start spilling in—the ones I keep in a box labeled "Do Not Open."
I should quit.
I should've quit a long time ago.
It's not like anyone would notice. I'm a replaceable cog in a rusted machine. My boss would just hand my projects to an intern and call it "redistributing responsibilities."
And Ryan—God, even thinking his name makes my jaw tighten.
He left early, thankfully, after "finishing up" his work. My work. He'll present it Monday like it was his idea from the start, and everyone will nod along because Ryan's good at making people think he's competent.
I should care. I should be angry.
But anger takes energy, and I'm tapped out.
Still, that near-miss shook something loose—something small but stubborn, like a pebble caught in my shoe.
I keep waiting for my life to get easier. Like ease is something that just… happens. That one day everything will finally click into place: the job, the money, the motivation. The mythical "having my shit together."
But that's not how it works. Not for me, anyway.
If I want out, I have to climb. And climbing means choosing a direction instead of waiting for daylight to find me at the bottom of the well.
I picture typing my resignation, fingers twitching like they want to. Then my brain steps in, ever helpful, with all the reasons it's impossible:
Rent. Bills. Insurance. The dreaded interview question—"Why did you leave your last position?"
"Well, you see, I got bored of dying inside every day."
Yeah. That'll sell.
I pull out my phone, thinking I'll finally open that job app I downloaded months ago, but the screen stays black. Right. The new brick. I'd taken it out on reflex, forgetting for a second.
I sigh and pocket it.
Then, out of nowhere, the cat idea sneaks itself in.
Ridiculous. Persistent. Like a song stuck in my head.
I've always wanted one—ever since I was a kid begging my parents for something that didn't need to be flushed when it died. Goldfish were great and all, but they didn't purr. They didn't curl up in your lap when the world felt too big.
I told myself I'd adopt one once I had "stability." Whatever that means.
But when exactly is that supposed to happen? When I'm happy? Rich? Someone else entirely?
Maybe stability isn't a destination. Maybe it's just… choosing things that don't hurt over and over again.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it: something small and warm waiting for me when I get home. A heartbeat beside my own. Soft fur under my fingertips. The thought feels embarrassingly good—like hoping for something I don't deserve.
Then the familiar chorus chimes in:
You can't even keep a plant alive.
You'd forget to feed it.
You'd ruin it.
I sigh again. The hope folds itself neatly away, but it doesn't disappear. It sits there, waiting. Stubborn as the rest of me.
By the time I reach my building, the streets are quiet. The motion light flickers—once, twice—before deciding to cooperate. I fish out my keys, and the lock gives after the third jiggle. Everything in my life takes effort.
Inside, the apartment smells faintly of coffee and detergent. The radiator clanks hello.
The couch slumps but holds. The bookshelf lists to one side, full of paperbacks with cracked spines and half-peeled stickers from the used bookstore. The fridge hums; the pipes rattle when I run the tap.
It's not glamorous, but it's mine.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and stand in the middle of the room, trying to feel grateful.
Roof. Paycheck. Coffee maker. Check.
The gratitude doesn't quite stick. It slides right off, leaving nothing behind.
But the near-miss tonight scraped something raw beneath the usual numbness. Left me feeling too much and not enough all at once.
I make tea, because that's what functioning adults do when they're having minor existential crises. The kettle rumbles, steady and grounding. While it boils, I open my laptop.
The glow fills the room with soft blue light, carving shadows into corners. I start a new document. Type "Resume_Final_v3" because I'm a liar who doesn't delete old drafts.
Bullet points take shape:
Increased client engagement by 12%
Managed cross-departmental communication
Streamlined reporting processes
It looks like someone else's life. Someone capable. Someone wonder when they'll have their shit together.
I stare at the words until they blur into abstract shapes.
"I could do better," I tell the empty room.
The fridge answers with a groan. Close enough.
I take my tea and computer to the couch and sink into the cushions. Steam curls lazily into the dim light, and I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my scraped palms. The silence hums—full and fragile, like it might break if I breathe too hard.
I turn on the TV. Some home renovation show where perfect people swing hammers at drywall and call it transformation. Shiplap and subway tile. Fresh starts in twenty-two minutes, minus commercials.
If only.
Still, maybe the metaphor isn't wrong. Maybe I just need to knock down a few internal walls of my own. Strip things back to the studs and rebuild.
I almost laugh. Therapy-speak sneaking in from all those self-help podcasts I pretend not to listen to while doing laundry.
But I let the thought stay.
Maybe the point isn't trusting myself. Maybe it's trying anyway. Showing up even when I don't believe it'll work.
A mental to-do list takes shape:
Update resume (for real this time)
Apply for three jobs a week
Research cats that don't hate small spaces
Don't die by truck
That last one makes me smile. Low bar, but I'll take the win.
The tea cools. The show ends. Another one starts—something about tiny houses and people pretending they can live without closets. My body reminds me it's been running on caffeine and spite since this morning. I should shower. Eat something that isn't crackers.
But my bed's right there.
Actually, the couch is closer.
I shut the laptop, stretch out, and let the quiet swallow me whole. The fridge whirs its steady rhythm. The fan drones. Rain taps against the window like it's asking to be let in.
My eyes drift closed.
Just a nap. Ten minutes, tops.
For once, I don't dream about work. I don't dream about Ryan's smug face or my boss's disappointed emails.
I dream about a cat—small, gray, with eyes like polished stones. It curls on my lap, warm and solid. Sunlight spills through a window I've never seen before, golden and thick as honey.
In the dream, I'm not tired. I'm not angry. I'm just… here. Present. The cat purrs, and the sound fills my chest like it's been empty and I didn't even know it.
Maybe, I think, this is what peace feels like.
The light shifts.
Brightens.
Too bright—sharp and white and wrong, like staring into a screen at full brightness. Digital and impossible.
I try to open my eyes, but I'm already awake—or I'm not, or I never was.
The window dissolves. The cat stays a heartbeat longer, then fades away like smoke.
And I don't wake up.