Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Sleep doesn't come back once I'm awake.
It's not fear that keeps me staring at the ceiling, not the kind that leaves you gasping or scrambling for air. It's everything stacking up at once, each piece sliding into place until there's no room left to ignore any of it.
I need a lawyer. Not later. Not when things feel easier to handle. Now. Because nothing moves forward until that's done, and I'm finished standing still while everyone around me continues to live their life.
Which means money. More than I have. More than I can pretend I'll figure out without help, which means asking for it, borrowing it, and already knowing I'll need a way to pay it back before I've even made the first call.
So... job.
Not something to pass the time. Not something easy. Something that actually builds toward something else, something that gets me back a version of my life that feels like mine again.
Fashion journalism.
The direction hasn't changed. What's changed is what I have to show for it – which is practically nothing. One unpaid internship that I walked out on and a handful of pieces no one has seen isn't exactly the kind of experience that gets you through a hiring manager's first glance, let alone a second.
Which means I'm not just applying. I'm convincing.
I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, the screen lighting up the dark as I unlock it, my thumb already moving before I can talk myself out of it. Job boards. Listings.
The first one I click opens fast, clean formatting, bold title at the top:
Assistant Editor – Fashion & Lifestyle.
My eyes drop to the requirements – Minimum three years of editorial experience. Strong portfolio of published work. Established industry connections preferred.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose.
Right.
I scroll anyway, reading through responsibilities I could handle, expectations I could meet if someone actually gave me the chance to prove it, before backing out and moving on to the next listing, then the next, each one a variation of the same thing – experience I don't have, credentials I didn't build, doors that don't open just because I want them to.
It's a lot to take in all at once. For a second, I let myself feel it – the size of it, the fact that every step forward depends on something I haven't figured out yet.
Then I sit up.
Because none of it gets easier if I stay here.
The house is quiet as I make my way down the hall, the floor cool under my feet, the kind of stillness that comes with the middle of the night when everything else has shut down.
