PURSUED BY THE MAFIA BOSS

Amelia’s POV

I stared at the crack in my ceiling for so long that it started looking like a map. Not a real map, more like one of those abstract paintings where someone swears they see Jesus in a slice of burnt toast. My version of divinity was a jagged crack shaped like a crooked smile, hovering over me like it knew I was too broke to fix it. I was sweating under the cheap fan that hummed like it was gasping for air. Every time the blades slowed down, I half-expected it to give its final wheeze and die. Another broken thing in this room.

The heat pressed down like a punishment. I’d been lying here for hours, doing nothing except counting how many bites of dry crackers I had left in the cupboard. Spoiler: not many. My stomach growled like it hated me, I ignored it because ignoring problems was easier than solving them, It had been for a while.

When my phone started ringing, I didn’t even look, I didn’t need to. The sound was sharp, aggressive, like the ringtone itself was angry with me, It had to be him, It was always him.

I answered slowly, like maybe if I dragged out the movement, time itself would pause.

“Hello?”

“Amelia, this is ridiculous,” my landlord snapped. No greeting, no pretense, his voice was thick with irritation, the kind only men who own buildings seem to perfect. “You owe two months already, you have until Friday, if you don’t have my money, you’re out, I’m not going to keep waiting.”

My chest tightened, the ceiling cracks above me suddenly sharper, meaner. “Please, I’m still looking for a job…”

“I don’t care, pay me or leave.”

The line went dead, just like that. He didn’t even hang around long enough for me to beg properly. I sat there holding the phone against my ear like the silence would morph into mercy, but silence doesn’t morph into anything. It just stays silent, cold, empty, mocking.

My body felt numb, two more days, two days before my mattress and trash bag of clothes were sitting on the sidewalk like a public display of failure. What would I do? Where would I go? The panic bubbled hot and sour in my chest. It felt like someone had poured ice water down my ribs, my hands were shaking.

I dropped the phone beside me, rubbed my eyes with my palms until stars burst in the dark behind them. The room felt even smaller. My whole life fit into this sad box: a mattress on the floor, a cracked lamp with no shade, a stack of dishes I hadn’t washed. The air smelled faintly like ramen seasoning, sweat, and disappointment. In college, I used to daydream about a sleek little apartment with plants on the windowsill and art on the walls. Fresh starts, independence. Now, everything I owned could fit in the trunk of a beat-up sedan. Everything I had shrunk down to surviving.

I checked my email, four new rejections. “We regret to inform you…” “We’ve chosen other candidates…” “Your qualifications do not meet our needs.” Sometimes they didn’t even bother to write words, just sent an automated “no” like a punch in the gut. I applied for anything now. Receptionist, barista, babysitter, dog walker. The world didn’t care that I once wrote essays on feminist theory and thought I was going to change something. The world cared about experience I didn’t have, money I couldn’t show, and references I’d run out of.

I thought about calling my parents. Then I shut that thought down fast, they had their problems, they didn’t need to know their daughter was drowning in overdue rent and instant noodles. My mom would’ve said “We told you not to move there,” and my dad would’ve sighed and gone quiet, which somehow hurt worse.

The door swung open, and Cecilia barged in like a storm, she never knocked. Her hoodie was oversized and bright yellow, the kind of yellow you couldn’t ignore even in a thunderstorm. Her curly brown hair was piled into a chaotic bun, flyaways bouncing as she moved. A grocery bag dangled from one hand, her phone from the other.

She froze when she saw me. Then: “You look like a dead fish.”

I gave her a half-laugh, half-groan. Cecilia had been my best friend since freshman year orientation, when I spilled coffee all over her brand-new notebook, and instead of cussing me out, she’d said, " Well, now it’s vintage.” That was her, quick with jokes, unbothered by disasters, she had a way of making life feel less impossible just by existing.

“The landlord called again,” I said.

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d detach. “Ugh, that bald gremlin.”

“He said I have until Friday or I’m out.” My voice cracked at the end, and I hated that it did. Showing weakness made me feel even smaller than I already was.

Cecilia tossed the grocery bag onto the counter and plopped onto my mattress like she was royalty claiming a throne. She shoved a bag of chips into my hands. “Okay, first, eat something before you fade into a tragic ghost, second, stop drowning in sadness every night. I refuse to be haunted by you.”

I clutched the chips against my chest like a teddy bear. “Ceci, I literally might be homeless.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. Her eyes softened, but her tone stayed sharp. “Which is why we’re going out tonight.”

My head snapped toward her. “What?”

“We are going out.” She crossed her arms, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands. She had that look that meant she wasn’t asking, she was announcing. “We’re going to drink something overpriced, dance to bad music, maybe flirt with men who don’t deserve us. And you’re going to remember you’re still alive.”

“I don’t feel like it,” I muttered, burying my face in the chip bag.

“That’s exactly why you’re going,” she shot back. She grabbed my pillow and smacked me with it. “Sitting here crying won’t summon a fairy godmother with rent money. Amelia, you’ve been in bed for days. You’re starting to smell like despair. Get up. One night won’t fix your life, but at least you won’t feel like dying for a few hours.”

Her words stung, mostly because they were true. I had been hiding in this cave of self-pity. Every day bled into the next, and nothing changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe I needed to breathe something other than hot, stale air and my recycled panic.

I sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I look terrible.”

“Then shower.” She grinned, already smug. “I picked out a dress for you, black, tight, you're going to look like a sad hot girl, which is my favorite aesthetic.”

A laugh bubbled out of me despite the dread pressing on my chest. Cecilia was chaos wrapped in kindness, the kind of friend who called me tragic while handing me snacks and solutions. I didn’t deserve her, but I clung to her like oxygen anyway.

“Fine,” I said, dragging myself up. My knees cracked. “We’ll go.”

“Yes!” She jumped like she’d just won a prize. “We leave at eight o'clock. I expect eyeliner, lipstick, the whole sad-hot package.”

I shook my head, feeling something lighter stir in my chest for the first time all week. “Alright, but I’m not dancing.”

She pointed at me like a curse. “We’ll see about that.”

By seven, my room smelled faintly like hairspray, perfume, and the faint chemical tang of Cecilia’s makeup bag exploding all over my floor. She had turned my cracked mirror into a vanity, lining up lipsticks like weapons. I sat in front of her cross-legged while she attacked my face with brushes and precision.

“Your skin hates you,” she said, dabbing foundation. “When’s the last time you drank water that wasn’t boiled into noodles?”

“Mind your business.”

She cackled, lining my eyes with steady hands. I watched myself transform into someone I didn’t recognize, someone sharper, prettier, like a girl who might belong in a crowded bar instead of on a collapsing mattress. The black dress clung in ways that made me nervous, but Cecilia clapped like a proud stylist when I stood in it.

“Sad-hot accomplished,” she declared. “Now put on these heels.”

“I’ll break my ankle.”

“Then you’ll break it beautifully.”

We laughed, and for the first time in weeks, the laughter didn’t feel forced.

We left a little after eight, stepping into the thick night air. The city was alive, even on a Thursday. Neon buzzed, tires hissed over damp asphalt, people shouted from balconies or laughed outside bars. The world didn’t stop just because my world was crumbling, it kept moving, glowing, drinking, and dancing. For once, I tried to move with it.

Cecilia looped her arm through mine as we walked toward the train. “Trust me, you need this.”

“Trust you? You once thought mixing tequila with milk was a good idea.”

“That was an experiment in courage,” she said, chin up. “And I survived.”

“You puked for two days.”

She shrugged. “Survival still counts.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. Maybe tonight would be chaos. Maybe I’d regret it in the morning. But maybe, just maybe, I’d feel alive again, if only for a few hours, and right now, that was enough.