Chapter 1: Broke, Not Broken
Being poor doesn't make you weak.
It just teaches you how to survive quietly.
I stood at the pharmacy counter with coins pressed into my palm, counting them twice like the numbers might change if I believed hard enough.
They didn't.
The coins were warm from my skin, edges worn smooth by years of use. I lined them up carefully on the counter, as if neatness could make up for the shortage. The cashier counted them once, then again, slower this time.
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "This won't cover it."
Her voice wasn't unkind. That almost made it worse.
I nodded and pulled my hand back before pity could settle between us. "I'll come back."
I didn't say when. We both knew why.
Outside, the sun was too bright for how heavy my chest felt. Traffic moved like nothing in the world was wrong. People laughed, talked on their phones, complained about things that didn't matter. I stood there for a moment, gripping the plastic bag that held everything I could afford — which wasn't much.
My phone buzzed.
Hospital Reminder: Payment Pending.
Then another buzz.
Follow-up Required. Please contact billing.
I silenced the phone.
I wasn't scared.
I was angry.
Angry that my mother lay in a hospital bed while money decided whether she healed or not. Angry that sickness didn't care how hard you worked or how carefully you lived. Angry that the world demanded silence from people like me, as if suffering should be polite.
By the time I got home, the sun was already sinking. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and yesterday's rice.
My younger brother sat at the small table, pretending the empty fridge didn't exist.
"I ate at school," he said too quickly, eyes glued to his notebook.
"Sure you did," I replied, ruffling his hair. "You and your invisible food."
He grinned, missing one of his front teeth. That smile hurt more than hunger ever could.
I cooked what little we had, splitting portions carefully. He didn't complain. He never did.
Later that evening, I took the bus to the hospital.
The lights were too white. The floors too clean. Hospitals always felt like places where hope and fear lived side by side, never touching.
My mother reached for my hand as soon as she saw me.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm fine," I replied automatically.
She smiled like she believed me. Or maybe she just wanted to.
We talked about nothing important — the weather, my brother's grades, a nurse she liked. We avoided the thing hovering between us.
Money.
When I stood to leave, she squeezed my hand.
"Don't overwork yourself," she said softly.
I promised her I wouldn't.
We lied to each other easily. Practice makes perfect.
On my way back, the bus stopped at a red light.
Across the street stood a building that didn't belong to people like me.
Jackie Towers.
Glass and steel stretched upward, reflecting the city lights like it owned them. People in tailored suits moved in and out, confident, unhurried. Power lived there. You could feel it even from the sidewalk.
I didn't know why my eyes lingered.
Maybe because buildings like that made decisions that ruined or saved lives — without ever seeing the people affected.
I stared at my reflection in the glass doors.
Worn shoes. Tired eyes. A stubborn chin I'd inherited from my mother.
I didn't want luxury.
I wanted security.
I wanted to walk into a pharmacy and not count coins. I wanted hospital calls that didn't feel like threats. I wanted my brother to stop lying about food.
And if the world only respected money, then one day, I would force it to respect me without it.
Even if it meant making choices I'd never planned to make.
As the bus pulled away, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before slipping the phone into my pocket without answering.
Some calls changed everything.
I wasn't ready for that yet.
Some calls didn't ask for permission.
They arrived with consequences already attached.
I watched the screen fade to black and slipped the phone into my pocket, pretending I still had control over my choices.
I didn't answer.
Not because I wasn't desperate.
But because I knew—once I did, nothing in my life would stay the same.
And I wasn't ready to face the price of that yet.