My exit from Nexa Interiors felt like a red-carpet walk. The only exception was that the carpet was lined with quiet cruelty.
No one wanted me to leave… except my competitors. The ones who hated that I was awarded the best Nexa designer over them.
I saw it in their eyes. The barely hidden grins. The satisfaction. This wasn't just termination—it was public disgrace.
I wouldn't wish this kind of exit on my worst enemy. It was humiliating. Bitter. Crushing. I don't think I've ever seen anyone leave a workplace under such painful circumstances.
I limped toward my car in the parking lot, my body heavy, my spirit bruised. Before I could even reach it, someone honked aggressively. He was urging me to move, as though my presence alone was an inconvenience.
I turned slightly and realized something worse. Some of my colleagues wanted me gone. Not later; immediately.
I got into my car but couldn't drive. I couldn't breathe. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel and cried again—quietly this time. Because every eye felt fixed on me.
I had no choice. I had to leave.
But leave to where?
I was homeless.
A few hours earlier, I had been thrown out of the house I helped pay for. This wasn't a case of moving into a friend's place or seeking temporary shelter. My life had been built around Marcus—our home, our plans, our future.
And now… none of it existed.
So where was I going? Where would I lay my head? What did I even have left? It felt like everything had been stripped away—my job. My home. My dignity. My joy. Everything.
And as if that wasn't enough, my heart was shattered. It felt like it had been broken again, gathered carefully, and served back to me on a golden plate.
It would have been normal—reasonable even—to say, I'll go back to my family.
That's what every sane person would do. But I wasn't every sane person. I was Mira. And I had no family. None. Not one.
That greedy, heartless aunt of mine did not deserve the title. I would never crawl back into that furnace of cruelty. Into the same hands that made my childhood unbearable, the same roof that taught me pain instead of love.
No. I would rather struggle alone than return to that place. And now, sitting there—homeless, jobless—memories I had buried for years came rushing back. My childhood. My teenage years. The loneliness. The silence. The way life felt when no one cared whether I survived or not.
This time, I wasn't crying because of Marcus. Not because of my job. I was crying because I remembered what it meant to grow up without parents. Without protection. Without a safe place to fall.
My parents were gone. My relatives kept their distance. And love was something I learned about from watching other people. I cried for the little girl who wished—desperately—that she had a family to run to when life became unbearable.
And just when I thought I had finally found that—Marcus, my supposed home, and Selene, my supposed sister:
They joined hands and tore everything apart. Now I had no one. No one to call. No one to lean on. No one is waiting for me anywhere.
I cried again. And again. And again. Until something shifted.
Enough!
A strange, quiet strength rose from somewhere deep inside me.
"Mira," I told myself, "you're done crying."
"This was not the time to fall apart. This was the time to think. Strategy time. You can't think when your mind is drowning in pain. Today was already heavy enough—you needed to decide what came next."
"Toughen up," I told myself. "You've survived worse. You've always survived."
And somehow—ironically, impossibly—my broken heart encouraged itself.
Strength found me. I lifted my head from the steering wheel. Wiped my face. Took a breath. Turned on the ignition.
I had endured enough humiliation for one day.
Staying on Nexa's premises any longer felt suffocating. Every stare and every imagined judgment was pressing down on me. I needed to leave. I needed distance. I needed air.
So I drove. Slowly, quietly, I rolled out of the premises—away from the place that had just watched my life unravel.
And for the first time that day, I moved forward.
I drove. And drove. And drove.
Hours slipped by without meaning—four hours, maybe more. I had no destination, no plan. Just motion, the road and the city lights blurring past my windshield like a movie I wasn't part of anymore.
I circled neighborhoods I didn't recognize. Passed streets I'd never walked. I slowed down at corners, scanning faces. I wondered if I might spot someone—anyone—familiar enough to ask for help.
I didn't. I checked quiet streets, looking for a place that felt safe enough to park for the night. Somewhere I wouldn't be questioned or chased away. Somewhere invisible.
My head throbbed. My body ached. My thoughts began to unravel.
"Girl," I muttered to myself, my voice hoarse, "you've finally lost it."
That was when the car sputtered.
Once.
Twice.
My hands tightened instinctively around the steering wheel.
"Hey… hey," I whispered, already easing my foot off the accelerator.
The dashboard lights flickered, like a warning, not a panic. The engine coughed one last time.
But I didn't freeze. I knew this car. It was my baby. I had driven it through storms, traffic, bad roads, and long nights. Muscle memory took over. Calm. Steady. I signaled, checked my mirrors, and skillfully veered the car off the road. I guided it safely to the side—away from traffic, away from trouble.
The engine finally went silent. I exhaled slowly, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. Only then did I glance down at the fuel gauge.
Empty.
A quiet, hollow laugh escaped my lips.
"So this is it," I murmured. "You waited until we were safe."
I leaned back in the seat, exhaustion settling into my bones.
No home. No job. No fuel.
It was only my car parked neatly by the roadside. The city hummed faintly in the distance, and the night stretched wide around me.
I stared through the windshield.
"So… you did it," I whispered to myself. "You exhausted the gas. The tank's empty. Congratulations."
My stomach tightened then—sharp, unmistakable.
I was starving.
I hadn't eaten all day. Not since life decided to tear itself apart that morning. Hunger layered itself on top of the heartbreak, exhaustion, and shock I felt. It made everything feel heavier… sharper… realer.
I rested her head against the seat and closed my eyes.
My lips parted as I whispered the only question that mattered now:
"What now?"
And my stomach answered before the city ever could.