10. Sasha
10
SASHA
By the time I make it home, I’m exhausted.
My whole body feels like it’s running on fumes, my feet ache from wearing heels all day, and my patience is hanging by a very thin thread.
I push open the door to my apartment, half-hoping that just this once, Melanie will acknowledge my existence.
No such luck.
She’s sprawled on the couch, headphones in, eyes locked on her phone like I don’t even exist. I drop my bag by the door with a heavy thud, but she doesn’t flinch.
Typical.
I head to the kitchen, barely managing to pull off my shoes before reaching for a glass, only to freeze mid-motion.
The sink is full.
Overflowing, actually—dirty plates stacked so high it’s a miracle they haven’t toppled over. The counter is a disaster zone, littered with crumbs, empty takeout containers, and a coffee mug with something that looks suspiciously like mold.
I stare at the mess, my jaw tightening.
She’s been home all day.
I know this because she works remotely, which is a fancy way of saying she watches reality TV in her pajamas and sends a few emails between episodes.
And yet—she couldn’t be bothered to clean up?
I take a slow, deep breath, clenching my fingers around the glass.
Fine. Whatever.
Maybe she just forgot.
Maybe she’ll clean it later.
I turn on the faucet, only for water to splash up violently, drenching the front of my blouse because—of course—someone shoved a fucking fork in the drain, blocking it.
And just like that, I snap.
“Hey, Melanie?”
She doesn’t react.
I rip off a paper towel, wiping myself down aggressively before trying again. Louder.
“Melanie!”
This time, she glances up, pulling out one earbud with the enthusiasm of someone being summoned to jury duty. “What?”
I gesture wildly at the sink. “Are you planning on cleaning this up anytime soon?”
She blinks at me, expression flat. “I’ll get to it.”
I wait.
She doesn’t move.
“Maybe before the cockroaches file for a lease?” I press.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just a few dishes, Sasha. Jesus.”
My blood boils. “It’s every dish we own,” I snap. “Do you ever plan on washing them? Or are we just waiting until a documentary crew shows up to film an episode of Hoarders ?”
She sighs loudly, like I’m the one being unreasonable.
“You know what?” I say, grabbing my phone. “Forget it. I’ll do it. Like I always do.”
She shrugs. “Cool. Thanks.”
And just like that, she puts her earbud back in.
I stand there, chest tight, hands shaking, watching as she tunes me out completely—like I’m nothing more than background noise.
Something inside me twists, hard.
It’s not just the dishes.
It’s everything.
The long hours at a job that pays me peanuts.
The suffocating loneliness of a city that doesn’t care if I sink or swim.
The fact that I could disappear tomorrow, and no one would notice.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, turn on my heel, and head straight for my room.
I slam the door shut, crawl into bed, and grab my phone.
Me: Tell me something. Have you ever lived with someone who acts like you don’t exist?
A response comes almost immediately.
Unknown Number: That bad of a day?
I stare up at the ceiling, hating how raw I feel.
Me: Worse. You ever walk into your own home and feel like an intruder?
Unknown Number: Explain.
Me: My roommate is a ghost. Except instead of disappearing, she haunts the living room, ignoring me unless I remind her that I pay half the rent.
Unknown Number: Sounds like a nightmare.
Me: I wish. At least then I could wake up from it.
A pause. Then?—
Unknown Number: What happened?
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up as I type.
Me: I came home to a disaster. Dishes piled up, food left out, the kind of mess that makes me wonder if I missed an eviction notice. She’s been home all day, doing nothing, and when I pointed it out, she just blinked at me like I was inconveniencing her.
Unknown Number: She sounds useless.
I smirk slightly, but it doesn’t last.
Because it’s not just the mess.
Me: It’s not just that. It’s…everything. I’m exhausted. I work my ass off all day, and for what? A paycheck that barely covers rent? A job where I’m disposable? A home that doesn’t feel like mine?
There’s a long pause before he texts back.
Unknown Number: You want to feel like it’s worth something.
I stare at the screen, my chest caving in on itself.
Me: Yeah.
The next message comes faster than I expect.
Unknown Number: I get it.
I blink.
He gets it?
Me: Somehow, I doubt that. You seem like the kind of man who already has everything figured out.
Unknown Number: You’d be surprised.
I chew my lip, hesitating.
Then—fuck it.
Me: I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long that I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore. I spent my whole life trying to keep my family afloat. My dad was…not great. My mom did her best, but she was always trying to clean up his messes. I worked jobs in high school just so we didn’t lose our house. And now I’m here, trying to make something for myself, and I feel like I’m still stuck in survival mode.
My hands shake slightly as I hit send.
I’ve never told anyone this.
Not even my friends.
But somehow, it’s easier to type it out to a faceless stranger in the dark.
A minute passes. Then?—
Unknown Number: Survival mode is hard to turn off. But you’re not just surviving. You’re moving forward.
I let out a slow breath.
Me: I don’t feel like it.
Unknown Number: That’s because you’re in the middle of it. You won’t see it now, but one day, you’ll look back and realize just how far you’ve come.
Something shifts in my chest.
I turn on my side, curling into my pillow, soaking in his words.
I want to believe him.
More than anything, I want to believe that I’m getting somewhere.
Me: Maybe.
Unknown Number: Definitely.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Me: How do you know?
Unknown Number: Because I know what that feels like.
I frown at the screen.
Me: You know what what feels like?
Unknown Number: Being stuck in survival mode. Feeling like if you stop moving, everything might fall apart.
I wasn’t expecting that.
Me: I figured you had your life all sorted out.
Unknown Number: No one really does.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.
Me: But you’ve got a good job, right? Something that pays well enough that you don’t have to worry about things like rent and whether your overpriced office supplies need manager approval?
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: Yes. But money doesn’t fix everything.
Something in my stomach flips.
I don’t know why. Maybe because I’ve spent my entire life believing that it would.
That if I could just make enough, if I could just get out of the struggle, then everything would fall into place.
Me: Then what does?
There’s a long pause.
Like he’s actually thinking about it.
Then—
Unknown Number: That’s the question, isn’t it?
I exhale, tapping my fingers against my blanket.
Me: Come on. Don’t be cryptic. Tell me something real. Something about you.
Unknown Number: Like what?
I think for a second.
Then—
Me: What was your childhood like?
A longer pause.
When his next message comes, it’s shorter than I expected.
Unknown Number: Strict. Structured.
I frown, flipping onto my side.
Me: So…boarding school and violin lessons?
Unknown Number: Something like that.
I snort. Rich people.
Me: And what about now? What do you do when you’re not working?
Unknown Number: Not much. Work keeps me busy.
Something about that answer bothers me.
Me: That’s not an answer. What do you like to do?
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: I like to read.
I blink. That was…unexpected.
Me: Seriously?
Unknown Number: Why do you sound so surprised?
Me: I don’t know. I figured you’d be more of a…I don’t know. Fast cars and whiskey type.
Unknown Number: Who says I can’t like both?
I smirk at my screen.
Me: Okay, fine. What do you read?
Unknown Number: History. Philosophy.
I let out a dramatic groan.
Me: God, of course you do.
His next message comes faster than expected.
Unknown Number: And what about you?
I blink at the screen, caught off guard.
Me: What about me?
Unknown Number: What do you like to do?
I hesitate, tapping my fingers against the blanket.
Because the truth is…I don’t know anymore.
I’ve spent so much time working, scraping by, trying to make something of myself that I don’t even know what I’d do if I had the time.
Me: I used to like photography. But I never have time for it anymore.
Unknown Number: That’s a shame.
Something about that hits deeper than it should.
I don’t know why. Maybe because I hadn’t even admitted that to myself yet.
Me: Yeah.
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: You should make time for it. Before you forget why you loved it in the first place.
I let out a slow breath, staring at my screen.
And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe that maybe he’s right.
* * *
The fluorescent lights in the office flicker slightly, buzzing overhead like they’re as exhausted as I feel. The air smells like burnt coffee and printer ink, the usual staleness of corporate misery settling over the rows of identical cubicles.
I’m halfway through an email, trying to convince myself that I don’t hate my life, when a shadow falls over my desk.
Ryan.
I blink up at him, my fingers pausing over the keyboard. He’s standing there, shifting on his feet, looking oddly nervous.
That’s new.
“Hey, Sasha,” he says, clearing his throat.
I glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Brittany is standing a few feet away at the copier, pretending she’s not listening but very obviously listening.
“Hey,” I reply slowly. “What’s up?”
Ryan rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, so…I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner sometime?”
I stare at him.
Did I hear that right?
My brain short-circuits for a second. Ryan is a coworker. A coworker who micromanages me to the brink of insanity. A coworker who has never once hinted at seeing me as anything other than someone to hover over while I work.
And now he’s asking me out?
I scramble for a response, not wanting to make this weird.
“Uh—”
“Just dinner,” he adds quickly, misinterpreting my hesitation. “No pressure.”
I open my mouth, about to tell him I’m not really looking for anything, but instead, my traitorous lips blurt?—
“Sure.”
I immediately regret it.
The second the word leaves my mouth, I want to grab it, stuff it back down my throat, pretend this never happened.
Ryan’s face brightens. “Great! We’ll figure out a time later.”
I nod stiffly, my entire body screaming what did you just do???
As Ryan walks away, I swear I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me.
I glance over and—yep. Brittany looks red-faced, her grip on the copier so tight her knuckles are white.
Oh.
Oh.
So that’s why she’s been weird about me lately.
I don’t have time to process that, because as soon as I sit down, I do the only thing that makes sense.
I text him.
Me: So, guess what?
Unknown Number: You finally stabbed your roommate?
I snort.
Me: No. Tempting, though. I just got asked out.
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: By who?
I hesitate, then type?—
Me: Ryan.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then—
Unknown Number: Ryan. As in the Ryan you complained about? The one who breathes down your neck at work?
I frown at my screen.
Me: Okay, first of all, he doesn’t breathe down my neck. He just…supervises. A lot.
Unknown Number: Sounds suffocating.
I roll my eyes.
Me: He’s not that bad. He’s actually nice.
Unknown Number: Right. Nice. That’s what every woman wants. To be nicely micromanaged.
I choke on a laugh.
Me: You’re being dramatic.
Unknown Number: I don’t like the guy.
I blink.
That’s new.
Me: You don’t even know him.
Unknown Number: I don’t need to. I know his type. A guy who hovers around, waiting for an opening, pretending he’s just being “helpful” when really he’s been eyeing you for months.
My face heats.
Me: That’s not true.
Unknown Number: You sure? Because it sounds like he waited until the last possible moment, and now that you’ve agreed, he’s probably celebrating like he won a prize.
I scoff.
Me: I’m not a prize.
Unknown Number: No, you’re not. You’re something a guy like him wouldn’t know how to handle.
My breath catches slightly.
Okay.
Me: So…what, you don’t think I should go?
Unknown Number: Do you think you should go?
I chew on my lip, shifting in my chair.
Me: I mean…he asked nicely. And I kind of blurted out yes without thinking. It’s just a casual dinner.
Unknown Number: Nothing about him sounds casual.
I shake my head, biting back a smile.
Me: Why do I get the feeling you’re jealous?
A long pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: I don’t get jealous.
I grin.
Me: Uh-huh. Sure.
Unknown Number: I don’t. I just have strong opinions about men who take too long to make a move.
I smirk at my screen.
Me: Duly noted. But relax, I’m not marrying him. It’s just dinner.
Unknown Number: Mm-hmm.
Me: Are you pouting right now?
Unknown Number: I don’t pout.
I laugh, shaking my head.
Me: Right. Totally believe you.
He doesn’t text back immediately.
And for some strange, ridiculous reason—I wish he would.
The afternoon drags, mostly because I keep side-eyeing my phone, waiting for another text that never comes.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
It’s not like I’m hoping for a response.
It’s not like I’m waiting for him to say something, maybe tell me not to go, maybe?—
Okay. I need to get a grip.
I focus on my screen, staring at an Excel sheet that I’m pretending to care about, when movement in my peripheral catches my attention.
Ryan.
He’s clearing out his desk.
I frown, swiveling in my chair. “Hey. Uh…going somewhere?”
Ryan glances up, stuffing a stapler into a box. “Yeah. Transfer.”
I blink. “Transfer?”
“Yep.” He tapes up the box with an alarming amount of force.
I stare at him, processing.
Ryan has been here longer than I have. He knows everything about this department—to the point where it’s kind of annoying. And now he’s suddenly being moved?
“Why?” I ask.
Ryan sighs. “Company restructuring.”
Oh.
Oh no .
Company restructuring is corporate-speak for “layoffs are coming, but we’re going to shuffle a few people around first so it doesn’t look obvious.”
I glance around the office, suddenly feeling the paranoia set in.
Brittany is at her desk, looking like she just won the lottery, which only makes me more nervous.
“What kind of restructuring?” I ask, lowering my voice.
Ryan shrugs. “No clue. Just got an email saying I’m needed in another department. Effective immediately.”
I squint at him. “And you didn’t question it?”
He shrugs again. “What’s there to question? It’s either transfer or…” He makes a throat-cutting gesture.
Fantastic. Reassuring.
I lean back in my chair, my stomach churning.
Does this mean more people are about to get the boot?
Does this mean I’m about to get the boot?
Because, realistically, if someone has to go, it’s probably me. I’m the newest hire. I’m not exactly irreplaceable.
I sweat internally as I think about my already barely surviving bank account.
God, what if I have to move back home?
What if I have to live with my parents again?
What if I have to explain to my mother that my degree from a top-tier school landed me approximately six months of employment before I got canned?
If layoffs are coming, I need a plan.
I need a backup plan.
I need to text my mystery man and ask him how much kidneys go for on the black market.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing the other side of Ryan’s cardboard box before he can argue. “I’ll help you move your stuff.”
He blinks at me. “You don’t have to?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off, already walking. “I don’t have to, but I am.”
He lets out a short laugh, but there’s a frustrated edge to it.
We weave through the maze of desks, the box slightly heavy in my arms.
“I swear, this company is like a reality TV show,” I mutter. “Office Survivor. One by one, they vote us off the island.”
Ryan groans. “If I get another vague email about embracing change , I might lose it.”
We reach the elevators, and just as I’m about to hit the button, I feel it.
A presence.
That distinct shift in the air that makes the back of my neck prickle.
Ryan stiffens slightly beside me, his grip tightening on the box.
And then I see him.
Damien Zaitsev.
Walking straight toward us.
My stomach dips, but I keep my face neutral.
Ryan, on the other hand, isn’t as composed. He stammers something unintelligible, barely managing to get out, “Mr. Zaitsev—uh—hello, sir.”
Damien doesn’t break stride.
Doesn’t even slow down.
Just barely glances at us—at me—before continuing past, his expression cold, unreadable, bored.
Like we’re nothing.
Like we’re beneath his notice.
Asshole.
I don’t even realize I muttered it until Ryan elbows me sharply. “Shush!” he hisses. “The CEO might hear you!”
The elevator doors ding open, and I step inside with Ryan, setting the box down with more force than necessary.
“Relax, he’s already gone.”
* * *
My bed is soft, my body aching from a long, exhausting day, but my mind won’t shut up.
I keep replaying everything.
And, of course, the fact that my mystery texter disappeared on me.
I stare at my phone, contemplating texting him again?—
Then it buzzes.
I jump, nearly dropping it.
Unknown Number: Busy today.
I exhale, rolling my eyes.
Oh, so now he has time.
Me: Oh, sure. Ignore me all day and then drop in like you’re some mysterious secret agent. That’s fine. Totally normal.
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number: Secret agent? I like that. Maybe I was on a mission.
I snort, rolling onto my side.
Me: Yeah? And what, exactly, were you doing? Chasing bad guys? Saving the world?
Unknown Number: Something like that.
Me: Uh-huh. You’re so full of it.
Unknown Number: You missed me.
I freeze.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure what to say.
Because…yeah.
I did.
I don’t want to admit it, though, so instead?—
Me: Wow. You disappear for one day, and suddenly you think you’re my emotional support stranger?
His reply comes immediately.
Unknown Number: Am I not?
I bite my lip, my chest tightening in a way that feels dangerous.
I should change the subject.
So I do.
Me: Fine. You were busy. Meanwhile, I had the weirdest day of my life.
Unknown Number: Tell me.
Me: Okay, so first, I accidentally agreed to go out with Ryan.
Unknown Number: …
Me: Then, Ryan was suddenly transferred out of my department.
Unknown Number: Huh.
Me: Huh? That’s all you’ve got? Huh?
Unknown Number: Strange timing, that’s all.
I pause, my fingers slowing.
Now that he says it like that…it is strange, isn’t it?
I chew on my lip, debating, then shake my head.
Me: Whatever. The point is, I helped Ryan move his stuff and ended up running into the CEO himself, the one and only Damien Zaitsev, who looked at me like I was an uninteresting Excel spreadsheet.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
I wait, but nothing comes.
I frown, watching my screen, waiting for the dots to appear.
Nothing.
Just like earlier.
A strange unease settles in my stomach.
Something about his reaction feels…off.
Like I said something I wasn’t supposed to.
Like he knows something I don’t.
I stare at my phone, wondering what the hell just happened.