The list of job postings on my laptop screen was a landscape of a foreign country. Each title—Graphic Designer, Junior Art Director, Visual Brand Specialist—was a city I had never visited, with its own language of requirements I wasn't sure I could speak. "Must be a proactive team player." "Excellent verbal communication skills required." "A dynamic, fast-paced environment."
Each phrase felt like a description of Seraphina. She was dynamic. She was the team player, the communicator, the one who thrived in fast-paced environments. I was the one in the quiet corner, the one who made the plans that enabled her dynamism. My resume, I realized with a sinking feeling, was a ghost. A document haunted by the shadow of a partnership that no longer existed.
I found the old file, Elara_Finch_Resume.pdf. I opened it. It was worse than I thought. My own name was at the top, but her presence was woven into the very fabric of the text. "Collaborated on brand development for several university-led projects." Sera was the one who did the talking in those collaborations. "Assisted in coordinating a successful gallery night for the art department." I had designed the posters and the layout; Sera had charmed the attendees and secured the venue. Every accomplishment felt shared, and now, halved. How could I claim the whole when I felt like the lesser half?
The cursor blinked mockingly on the blank page of a new document. Rebuilding a life from scratch, it turned out, started with the terrifyingly mundane task of rebuilding a resume. I was trying to describe myself, but the only words that came to mind were words defined by my relation to her: friend, roommate, partner, moon. None of which were skills you could list on LinkedIn.
Just as I was about to close the laptop, defeated, a small notification slid into the corner of my screen. An email. The subject line was innocuous: "Your Monthly Statement is Ready." But the sender was 'SpotiFi Premium Duo,' and the first line of the email read, "Hi Seraphina & Elara, here's what you listened to this month."
It was a gut punch. A digital ghost I hadn't known how to exorcise. Our shared music account. Of course. Another tiny, digital thread connecting us that I now had to cut. I stared at her name next to mine, the ampersand between them looking like a broken link in a chain. I remembered the night we signed up for it. We were sitting on this very floor, debating playlists. She wanted upbeat pop for her morning runs; I wanted ambient, instrumental tracks for late-night designing. The Duo plan was a perfect compromise. A perfect reflection of us.
"You do the brilliant design work, Ellie," I remembered her saying one of those nights, gesturing to my screen filled with a complex project. "And I'll do the schmoozing to get us paid for it. We're a perfect team."
Was I brilliant without her? Or was I just the quiet technician who needed a charismatic front-woman to give my work a voice?
The doubt was a thick fog, choking the fragile resolve I'd found earlier. I clicked back to my empty resume, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. But my eyes drifted back to my portfolio, still open in another tab. I clicked on it, seeking refuge in my own past work. I scrolled past the smaller projects until I landed on the centerpiece: The Community Library.
I looked at the detailed 3D renderings, the carefully chosen color palettes, the thoughtful layout designed for quiet reading nooks and bright, open children's areas. I remembered the weeks I had poured into it. Sera had been busy with her own final exams then. I had done this one alone. I'd stayed up until 3 a.m., not because of a deadline, but because I was obsessed with getting the light just right in the virtual atrium. I had felt a fire in my chest then, a passion that had nothing to do with a team, a partner, or anyone else. It was mine. The pride was mine.
That person, the one who built a library out of pixels and passion, was still in here somewhere. Buried, perhaps, under months of grief and self-pity, but not gone.
I took a deep breath. It wasn't about being Sera. It wasn't about faking a dynamism I didn't have. It was about being the person who designed that library.
My gaze returned to the list of job openings. I ignored the flashy ones at big agencies, the ones that screamed 'Sera.' My eyes settled on a listing further down the page. "In-house Junior Designer for a small publishing house." The requirements were more subdued. "Strong portfolio in typography and layout design. Detail-oriented. Ability to work independently."
Detail-oriented.Work independently.
I could do that. That was me. That was the architect.
My fingers started moving, slowly at first, then with more confidence. I rewrote my resume. I didn't lie, but I reframed. "Collaborated on..." became "Designed key visual assets for..." "Assisted in coordinating..." became "Developed all promotional materials and spatial layouts for..." I was no longer the assistant in my own life story. I was the designer.
When it was done, an hour later, it was a document that felt honest. It was quieter than the old one, but it was sturdier. It was mine.
With a heart that felt like it was going to beat its way out of my chest, I opened the application portal for the publishing house. I filled in the boxes. I uploaded my new resume. And then I paused at the final button. The little blue rectangle that said, "Submit Application."
This was it. The arrow shot into the dark. The first real step off the island of my grief. I closed my eyes, pictured the quiet, beautiful atrium of my imaginary library, and I clicked.
The page refreshed to a simple confirmation: "Thank you. Your application has been received."
I leaned back in my chair, the silence of the apartment rushing back in. But this time, it felt different. It wasn't empty. It was waiting.