Page 12 of The Beautiful Collision
four
MAYA
This apartment reekslike someone died in it recently, and this isn’t the worst one I’ve looked at today.
The thought hammers through my skull as my fingers skim along the countertop, cataloging every chip and bubble in the cheap laminate. This surface actively repels light, swallowing it into fake wood grain that feels like dried syrup under my palm.
From thirteen hundred square feet to… this?
Twenty-four days until I’m homeless, and here I am, calculating if I’mthisdesperate. My mother would need her Xanax doubled if she knew I was even breathing this air, even though she is one-half of the reason I’m in this position in the first place.
Sophie orbits beside me, radiating sympathy. I can feel her cataloging my every micro-expression for signs of imminent collapse, mentally rehearsing comfort speeches. But I’ve been trained by masters, and years of Hayes family dinners have carved me into someone who could smile through her own autopsy.
“The previous tenant was very clean,” the landlord announces, right as we stand under water damage that’s clearly visible on the ceiling.
I force my facial muscles into an interested position, in case I do decide to go for this shithole. “How wonderful.”
The kitchen—and I’m being charitable with that noun—is smaller than my walk-in closet. But when I catch my reflection in the grimy window above the sink, I don’t recognize the girl staring back. She looks exhausted, ordinary, like someone who might actually live here.
When did I start looking so… defeated?
“Utilities are extra,” the landlord drones, consulting a clipboard. “First and last month required upfront, plus security deposit. No pets, no parties after ten, no?—“
“How much?”
The words slice through his monologue like a scalpel through skin, and he names a figure that’s a punch in the gut. A month ago, I dropped more than that on a single night out—bottle service and a table where you could see the entire club spread below you like conquered territory.
But now?
“I’ll think about it,” I manage, the lie sliding out slick and practiced while something dies inside me. “Thank you so much for your time.”
I turn and head for the door, my body on autopilot while my brain spirals through calculations that never balance. My scholarship covers tuition. Work-study pays for textbooks and ramen. But even with extra shifts and fueling myself with nothing but spite and tap water, I couldn’t afford this place.
Not without callingthem.
Not without admitting defeat and asking for their help.
Fat fucking chance.
My hand clamps the railing as I head downstairs, and through designer leather I can feel decades of grime from desperate hands sliding along this same metal, leaving their DNA and their hope behind. My breathing goes shallow, thewalls compress, and for one horrifying moment, I think I might actually?—
“Jesus, how do people live like this?” The words burst out.
Sophie sighs from behind me. “Maya?—“
“No, seriously. How do they wake up every day knowing this is it?”
“Maya.”
“This is their ceiling? Their?—“
“Maya.”
Sophie’s voice cuts through, and I realize I’ve stopped moving. I’m just standing here in this nightmare stairwell, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping me standing. Sighing with frustration, I head outside, and the cool air slaps me.
Sophie falls into step, and I can feel her questions pressing against the silence. “So,” she finally ventures. “That’s the third one this morning.”
“Your counting skills are unparalleled.” Sarcasm snaps out, automatic as breathing. “Switching majors?”
