First message
I sat on the edge of my bed, still in my work uniform, the scent of coffee and greasy food clinging to me. My feet ached, my bank account was pathetic, and rent was due in less than a week. I let out a slow breath, staring at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I could still hear their voices from earlier.
“My daddy just sent me two grand for a self-care day.”
“Ugh, mine paid for my trip to Cabo last month. Best vacation of my life.”
I had smiled, nodded, refilled their drinks like a good little waitress. But inside, something had twisted. Not with judgment—no, with curiosity. With frustration. With the nagging, bitter thought that I was just as smart, just as capable as them, yet here I was, living paycheck to paycheck while they sipped expensive cocktails without a care in the world.
I tapped the App Store. Typed it in.
For a second, I just stared at the screen. I could still back out. Close the app, pretend I never considered it. I exhaled sharply and pressed Download.