BURNING DELUSION

•|02. Shifting Sands.

"We're all just one bad decision away from disaster"-Estherlina.

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The city lights blur as I rush through the crowded streets, weaving between groups of people who don't even notice me. It's almost midnight, but New York never sleeps. I wish I could say the same for myself. My feet ache, my back feels like it's been twisted into a knot, and the only thing keeping me going is the thought of crawling into bed for a few hours before I have to do this all over again.But even that feels like a luxury I can't afford tonight.

I'm halfway down the block when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I groan, not bothering to check. It's probably another client, or worse-another reminder from the mafia. I don't have the energy to deal with either right now. All I can think about is the conversation with my boss that's replaying in my mind, over and over, like a bad dream.

"This isn't working out anymore, Estherlina, we have to let you go."

I tried explaining to him. Told him about the double shifts, the freelancing gigs, the assignments for university. But the way it felt? like I was disposable, like all my hard work meant nothing, made me feel so small. So now, I'm jobless.. again.

I pick up the pace, the weight of the night settling on my shoulders. My savings are already down to almost nothing. Without the restaurant job, I'm screwed. Upwork and Fiverr aren't enough to cover everything, especially not with the mafia breathing down my neck. I have a few projects due by the end of the week, but even if I work through the night, I'm not going to make enough to cover their next payment.When I finally reach my apartment complex, the door feels heavier than usual as I push it open.

I collapse onto the plush couch in my apartment, my head spinning. The events of last night replay in my mind like a bad dream, except it's not a dream at all. I got fired. Just like that,
but what's the point? In New York City, there's always someone else ready to take your place.

I stare up at the ceiling, the warm lighting of my apartment doing little to soothe the tension coiled in my chest. It's not like I'm living in a hole-in-the-wall. My place is decent, a cozy two-bedroom with sleek furniture and a view of the city lights. It's the kind of apartment that whispers "middle-class comfort," but comfort doesn't mean stability.

Not when I'm juggling school, freelance gigs, and now job hunting again. Not to mention the debt.

My phone buzzes on the marble table snapping me out of my thoughts. I almost don't check it but when I glance at the screen I frown. Another message from a number I don't recognize, just like the others.

I've been getting these strange texts for weeks now, vague messages about paying what I owe, accompanied by thinly veiled threats.

"You're running out of time, Estherlina.We don't wait forever."

I delete the message without replying. I can't afford to let fear control me, not now. I have to focus, have to push harder. The deadline is looming over me, both from me freelance clients and the debt collectors who are lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to slip up.

I already know who it is: the mafia, reminding me of my next payment, another threat hidden between lines of polite demands. I swipe the notification away without opening it, shoving the phone under a cushion. I'll deal with that later. Right now, I just need to rest. I quickly make myself a meal, take a shower then head to bed.

∞ ∞ ∞

I glance at the clock. Class starts in forty minutes, and I haven't eaten yet. No time for breakfast, but maybe I can grab something on campus. With a deep breath, I push myself up and head to my room, changing into a fresh pair of cargo pants and a baggy t shirt. I'll figure it out. I always do.