I closed the apartment door behind me and leaned against it for a second, letting out a slow breath. The place smelled faintly of last night's takeout—pizza and some garlic bread left on the counter. My heels were still on, and I kicked them off one by one. My feet pressed into the hardwood, cold against my skin, and I felt a little relief finally creep in.
The hallway mirror caught my reflection. I ran a hand through my hair, which had gone a little messy from the wind outside, and stared. My eyes were tired, but they didn't look weak. They weren't supposed to. I tilted my head, tracing the curve of my jaw and shoulders. This body, the one everyone stared at, had become both my weapon and my burden.
Mom would be calling soon. She always did, to check the money I brought home. She didn't ask about my life, my feelings, or how I was doing. She asked only for the numbers. "Bring home what's needed," she said every month. And I did. I always did. Even when it hurt, even when I felt like I was drowning.
I picked up my phone. A text from my friend Jenna flashed across the screen, asking if I wanted to go out tonight. I typed a quick "Maybe" without thinking. Going out wasn't the point. There were clients waiting, deadlines to meet in this life I hadn't chosen, but couldn't escape. Survival didn't leave room for fun.
I showered quickly, scrubbing away the sweat and the city grime from the subway ride. My body was strong, curves sharp and noticeable, the kind of body men couldn't ignore. I hated it sometimes, hated that it had become my way to survive, but I was good at it. I had to be. My life, my family, depended on it.
The streets were alive as soon as I stepped out again. Horns blaring, people rushing to work, their coffees steaming in the morning air. I kept my head down, hoodie over my hair, bag tight against my shoulder. I didn't look at anyone. Didn't smile. Didn't give a hint that I was human, that I had thoughts or feelings. Weakness wasn't safe, and I had learned that the hard way.
The first client waited in a high-rise office building downtown. Glass walls reflected nothing but their own power and importance. I knocked, walked in with my back straight and my head held high. Some men could intimidate you just by looking at you. He tried. I didn't flinch. Not once.
The hour passed the same as always.
Money exchanged, rules followed, promises of discretion that didn't really mean anything. The words cut deeper than hands ever could. I left without crying. Crying was for later, in the privacy of my apartment, when no one could see.
Back on the street, the wind hit my face, city noise pressing in from all sides. The city didn't care about me, and I didn't expect it to. That didn't mean I didn't care about surviving it. I had my small victories: a coffee from the corner shop, a sandwich for dinner, a few minutes sitting on the subway bench just closing my eyes. Those were mine.
When I got home, I dropped my bag and sank onto the couch. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about tomorrow: clients, bills, Mom's voice demanding numbers. I didn't like this life, but it was mine to survive. And survive I would. Always.