Let's just call it what it is:
I wasn't ready for the real world.
Up 'til now, I'd been coasting through chaos like I had plot armor. Thought smarts and hustle were enough. Thought I could bounce back from anything. Thought the world owed me a break just because I made it this far.
But life doesn't hand out grace. Not to people like me.
And I'd been seeing everything through tinted glasses—some busted-ass rose-colored lenses that made every red flag look like a carnival light. I thought I had people. Thought I had time.
I had nothing.
At this point, everyone around me started pulling back. Friends? Ghosted. Family? Done lending. I borrowed off everyone I knew—twice. Made promises I couldn't keep just to buy myself another week, another smoke, another excuse.
I was three months behind on rent.
Oh yeah, forgot to mention—I had a roommate. One of those "cool on the surface" types, all vibes and vape smoke. But when rent came due, he pulled a full Houdini. No warning, no note, just vanished—along with half the furniture, a stolen WiFi modem, and my last shred of stability.
But he wasn't the real gut-punch.
That came from someone who was supposed to matter.
A girl I grew up with. One of those childhood friendships that start innocent—playgrounds, inside jokes, late-night phone calls—but twist into something darker when you're both broken and pretending not to be.
She wasn't a villain, not really. More like a survivalist. Used me until I had nothing left to offer, then bounced. Left me holding three months of unpaid hydro bills, internet debt, and a hole in the wall I couldn't afford to patch.
And yeah, she took the couch.
I'm not even mad. That couch was cursed anyway.
By the time the smoke cleared, I was alone in a half-empty apartment, lights off, fridge empty, phone on 1%, and no one left to call.
I was shitting myself.
Not metaphorically. Like, real fear. The kind that settles in your stomach and stays there. The kind that makes you rethink every decision you ever made—from the first line of code I ever wrote, to the last person I trusted with my heart or my money.
And my mom?
She stopped worrying about me the second I turned eighteen. Should've seen it coming. She did her time—literally. Took the fall, carried the weight, held it down longer than most would. But the moment I was legally grown, she clocked out.
Can't blame her.
I was no one's responsibility anymore.
But that's the thing they don't tell you: growing up doesn't mean you grow smart. You just grow alone.
And when you hit rock bottom, there's no bounce.
Just the sound of your own breath in the dark, asking yourself:
Now what?