Charlotte's Apartment — 8:34 PM
Charlotte sat on her floor, laptop open, looking at her bank account.
Rent due in two weeks: $1,850 Remaining balance: $4,200 Gallery paycheck (biweekly): $720 after taxes
The math wasn't great.
She had jewelry she could sell. The pearl earrings her grandmother gave her. A Cartier bracelet. Maybe $5,000 more if she was careful.
That gave her four months. Maybe five if she was really careful.
And then what?
Her mother's voice in her head: When this falls apart...
Charlotte looked around her studio apartment. The leaking sink she still hadn't fixed. The water stain on the ceiling. The three books that constituted her entire library.
Was this really better? Was proving a point worth this?
Her phone buzzed. Text from Maria: Hey! Just wanted to say thanks again for Saturday. Mateo and I talked today about maybe doing a mentor thing. This is so cool!!
Charlotte smiled despite herself. That, at least, was real. She'd made that connection happen.
Another text from Maria: Also you should come to my mom's restaurant sometime. Best chilaquiles in LA. I'll hook you up with the family discount 😊
Charlotte: I'd love that.
Maria: You ok? You sound sad.
Charlotte: Just a long day at work.
Maria: Want to talk about it?
Charlotte thought about it. Did she? Could she explain to Maria—who was working at her mom's restaurant AND teaching kids AND painting—that she felt sorry for herself because someone from her old life recognized her?
Charlotte: I'm okay. Just tired. Rain check on that talk?
Maria: Anytime. Seriously. You were there for me. I'm here for you.
Charlotte set down her phone, tears in her eyes.
Maybe that was what mattered. Not whether she was authentically poor enough or struggled enough or whatever metric she was measuring herself against.
Maybe what mattered was showing up. For Maria. For herself. For the life she was trying to build, however imperfectly.
Mateo's Studio — Same Time
Mateo stared at his phone, Charlotte's abrupt hang-up replaying in his mind.
Sophie walked in without knocking (as usual). "You look miserable. What happened?"
"Charlotte's spiraling."
"About what?"
"About whether she's 'authentic' enough. Whether she belongs in this world. Whether she's just playing at independence."
"Is she?"
"No. She's doing the work. But she can't see it because someone from her old life showed up at her gallery today and made her feel like a fraud."
Sophie sat down. "You know what the problem is?"
"Enlighten me."
"She's trying to prove she's changed by rejecting everything she was. But you can't build an identity out of negatives. She needs to figure out what she's running toward, not just what she's running from."
"How do I help her with that?"
"You don't. She has to figure it out herself." Sophie paused. "But you can be there when she does."
"What if she decides she doesn't want this life? What if she goes back?"
"Then she goes back. But Mateo—" Sophie looked at him seriously. "You're doing the same thing she is. You're so busy waiting for her to leave that you're not actually present with her."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? Every time she doubts herself, you panic. Every time someone from her old world appears, you start measuring yourself against them. You're both so afraid of being left that neither of you is actually here."
Mateo knew she was right. But knowing didn't make it less scary.