The small box of peppermint tea sat on the counter, a silent green monument to a decision I didn't realize I had made. For a long while, I just stared at it. It felt like a foreign embassy had been established in my kitchen, representing a country of one: me. The act of buying it had been a spark of defiance in the rain, but now, back in the crushing silence of the apartment, it felt small and faintly absurd.
Still, a promise is a promise, even one you make to yourself in a moment of quiet desperation. I filled the kettle, the rush of water the loudest sound the apartment had heard in days. I watched the flame on the gas stove lick the bottom of the kettle, a tiny, controlled fire in a life that felt like a smoldering ruin.
When the water whistled, I poured it over the teabag. The steam that rose was sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the cloying lavender scent from Sera's old diffuser that I imagined still clung to the curtains. The aroma of peppermint was the scent of a hospital waiting room, of a clean slate, of something sterile and unburdened by memory. It wasn't comforting, but it was new.
I took a sip. It tasted exactly as I remembered: like sad toothpaste water. A faint, medicinal sweetness that coated my tongue. I didn't love it. I didn't even particularly like it. But as I took another sip, a strange sense of calm settled in my chest. This flavor was a territory she had never claimed. This feeling, this moment, this mediocre cup of tea—it was mine. It wasn't a foundation, but it was a single, solid patch of ground to stand on.
The warmth of the mug in my hands was a temporary comfort. Reality, however, is rarely so poetic. My eyes drifted to the small table by the door, where a pile of mail had been accumulating for over a week, a paper tombstone of my own avoidance. I'd let it sit there, unopened, because mail meant responsibility, and responsibility meant acknowledging a future I wasn't ready to face.
With the tea giving me a sliver of borrowed courage, I walked over and picked up the stack. Junk mail, a credit card offer, a flyer for a pizza place. And then I saw it. A crisp white envelope with a clear plastic window. From the building management. My stomach clenched. I knew what it was before I opened it.
The rent was due.
The number on the page seemed to leap out at me, printed in a cold, unforgiving font. It wasn't just a number; it was a wall. A barrier between me and the next thirty days of having a roof over my head. Before, this had been a shared burden. Sera, with her part-time job at that trendy downtown gallery, always covered her half without a second thought. Our finances, like everything else, had been intertwined. We were a team.
Now, the team was dissolved, and I was left holding all the liabilities.
My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out my laptop, the screen's glow pushing back the apartment's gloom. I navigated to my bank account page, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. I already knew what I would find. The number that stared back at me was pathetic. It was the financial equivalent of a shrug. It was enough for groceries, for utilities, but it wasn't nearly enough to slay the dragon of next month's rent.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to seep into the cracks of my grief. This was a new kind of fear. Heartbreak was an abstract, shapeless monster. A dwindling bank account was a predator with teeth, a countdown timer ticking loudly in an empty room. I couldn't just sit here and feel sad anymore. Sad didn't pay the bills.
I clicked through old files on my laptop, searching for some forgotten savings account, a financial miracle that I knew didn't exist. Instead, my cursor hovered over a folder I hadn't opened in months. Its name was simple: PORTFOLIO.
I clicked.
The screen filled with images of my own creation. Intricate floor plans for imaginary houses. Sleek, minimalist branding guides for fictional companies. A complete architectural proposal for a community library—my final project for my design degree. It was meticulous, creative, and professional. It was… good. I remembered the pride I'd felt when my professor had held it up as an example of "form and function in perfect harmony."
Sera had been there at my presentation, cheering louder than anyone. "See? I told you!" she'd beamed afterward. "You're the architect. I'm just the loud one who gets us in the door."
We were a team. I was the strategist, the planner, the one who built the foundation. She was the face, the voice, the one who sold the vision. But somewhere along the way, I had forgotten how to build for myself. I had become so focused on designing the world we shared that I'd forgotten I could draw my own blueprints.
I looked from the rent notice on the table to the detailed designs on my screen. From the cold, hard number that represented my failure, to the elegant lines that represented a skill I still possessed. The panic didn't disappear, but it changed shape. It morphed from a paralyzing dread into a hot, urgent flicker of necessity.
Grief was a luxury I could no longer afford.
My fingers moved across the trackpad, clicking away from my bank account, away from the portfolio. I opened a new browser tab. The white search bar gleamed, a blank slate, a question waiting to be asked.
I slowly typed in the words: Junior Graphic Designer jobs.
The screen populated with a list of companies, of opportunities, of a world outside the four walls of my grief. It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. But as I stared at the list, holding my now-lukewarm mug of peppermint tea, I felt the ground beneath my feet solidify just a little bit more. The arithmetic of being alone was brutal, but for the first time, I felt like I might have the tools to solve the equation.