Maya's apartment felt smaller than ever. The broken phone on the table, the chipped mug, the dust catching sunlight — all silent reminders that control had slipped through her fingers.
She tried to clean, to organize, to plan. Nothing stuck. Laundry piled, dishes stacked, papers scattered like her thoughts.
She shouted at the apartment. She shouted at herself. The echo bounced back, indifferent.
And yet, in the chaos, a strange relief: no audience, no performance, just… existence. Not triumphant, not defeated — just relief.
Maya called Elena that evening. Not to apologize, not to ask permission — she wasn't sure why.
"How are you holding up?" Elena asked, calm as always.
Maya hesitated. All her rehearsed complaints and clever lines fell flat. She muttered something about the apartment, the work, the world.
Elena listened without judgment, without rushing to fix anything.
Maya's chest ached. Envy burned hotter than ever. How could someone be so steady, so competent?
And beneath the resentment, a flicker of something else stirred — admiration, recognition, a tiny seed that maybe she could learn from this calm instead of fighting it. She hated that seed immediately.
Maya stormed out of her apartment that morning, restless and bitter. She tried to channel it somewhere — a call, an email, anything to prove she still had power.
At the coffee shop, a barista misheard her order. Maya snapped. Sharp words, stinging tone. The barista froze, apologizing quickly. Maya walked away, feeling a brief spark of satisfaction, quickly replaced by shame.
Her anger followed her like a shadow. She wanted to blame Elena, the campaign, the world. But the reflection in shop windows caught her eye: sharp, jagged, restless — still herself, still flawed.
She turned her face away, muttering, Not yet. Not now.
Back home, Maya caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She studied it as if it could explain everything — the dark circles, the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes avoided their own gaze.
She wanted to lie, to tell herself it didn't matter, that she was clever, unstoppable. But the mirror refused complicity.
For the first time, she allowed a thought she had spent years dodging: I am small. I am flawed. I have hurt people I care about.
Not all at once but enough to make her feel tremors of shame.