32. Natalie
NATALIE
I’m on the bus, half awake, half running on autopilot. Work at the store is simple and repetitive. I fold shirts, restock shelves, learn the names of the regulars who come in more for conversation than bargains. No one here cares who I used to be or what I’ve lost. I’m just Natalie.
It’s humbling and strangely freeing but somewhere between the disappointing paydays and the watery coffee, I start to realize how tired I am. Tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I can fix this.
I thought keeping busy would help but now it just feels like this is it. This is all I have. Taking this job was supposed to prove that I could rebuild myself from the ground up. But the truth is, I’m on a path to nowhere. Retail isn’t what I want, and it never will be.
I close my eyes as the bus takes a corner.
I know what’s coming. This route passes the Carter flagship, then Vue a few blocks down.
The bright glass, perfect mannequins, everything I used to be reflected back at me.
Some mornings I still send out my CV, carefully worded emails to PR firms or small fashion start-ups that never respond.
I tell myself it’s fine, that this is temporary, but the silence on the other end is starting to feel permanent.
The articles about Henry and me have stopped but the damage is done. His words still loop in my head sometimes. The things he said about me being too proud. I’m starting to see that he’s right.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About how much of my life I’ve spent trying to prove I’m enough.
That I’m special, that I belong. I thought success would finally make me feel that way.
I thought if I became the girl people envied—the one with the job, the clothes, the confidence—then maybe I’d stop feeling like a fraud.
But even when I had all of it, I still felt like an imposter waiting for someone to notice I didn’t belong.
Now, stripped of it all, I don’t even know who I am. The only person who ever made me feel like I was enough was Henry and I ruined that.
The bus turns the corner, and the Carter store comes into view. It shouldn’t still sting but it does. The glass catches the morning light just right, so sharp it almost hurts to look at. Before I can stop it, my eyes blur.
I’ve been such an idiot. Look where my stupid, stubborn pride has got me.
I should’ve taken his help when he offered it.
Now I’m scared it’s too late. That if I go crawling back, he’ll laugh, or worse, pity me.
Still, some part of me can’t let go of that pride, the one thing I’ve clung to even as everything else slipped away.
I’d rather be miserable forever than let him see me like this.