Page 135 of Poison Aches

I clear my throat and smile. “Like I explained over the phone, I just moved here from across the country. This is my first time in New York City and this is all I can afford.”

Actually, my new friend Jackson who I met online told me about this place, but he told me not to mention his name to the landlady.

“Are you pregnant?”

My jaw drops open. “What?”

“Hmmm, you look like a prude, so maybe not. So you must be here for an adventure of some sort or maybe you’re running away from home? Strict parents that forbade you from going out, drinking or holding hands with a boy?”

I want to laugh out of embarrassment because I’m pretty sure the only boys who’ve ever held my hand are Noah, George, and Alex when they were helping me go down a flight of stairsor when we were boarding a plane one time or those chivalry moments.

But instead of a laugh, a sudden burst of guilt blooms in my chest.

I’m not exactly running from home, but my exodus wasn’t done in full truth.

I’m not here for academic reasons at all but I spent the entirety of my flight over here stewing in heated guilt and anxiety. There’s no reason to rehash that.

“Not at all. In fact, I’m?—”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t want to hear your sob story,” she says, then she turns on her heel and starts walking away, going towards the raggedy building I was side-eying this entire time.

It looks… rough, beaten up, and not at all hospitable.

My stomach starts sinking. Please don’t let that be the building.

I quickly fish out my phone and go to my emails to check again the address Jackson gave me.

I stay there, not knowing what to do until she looks over her shoulder at me. “Are you coming?”

I blink at her. I can’t really afford to be picky right now. I just need a roof over my head for now. After I meet my father, things will change, I’m sure.

“Yes, I’m coming!”

I grab my stuff and follow after her into the building. The entrance is narrow and dark with rusty letterboxes on both walls. Most are even overflowing with mail.

It’s a twenty-four-story building with only one elevator that is so old, it takes ages to come down when the landlady calls for it.

When the elevator finally arrives, she presses for floor eleven and I almost groan.

I hate odd numbers.

My mind already works in strange ways so adding OCD to the mix shouldn’t be a surprise… but then again, this is all just TikTok diagnosed. I’m perfectly fine—as long as I don’t get probed and talked in circles by an actual professional, I won’t get tagged, so yeah… never let them know your next move.

If only that helped with the antsy feeling in my chest now.

“I’ll be staying on the eleventh floor?” I quip.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

The look she gives me almost stops me dead in my tracks.

“No, not at all. I was just wondering if you have anything on the even-numbered floors.”

She rolls her eyes again.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those ADJB mental pariah people.”

I almost wince at that. The conversation around mental health has evolved in recent years, but there are still quite a few people who don’t believe in it. As if to prove my point, she goes on a tirade.

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