Jane Smith

J

Jane Smith

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The rain wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a thundering, cinematic downpour. It was a miserable, persistent drizzle, the kind that soaks through your clothes and chills you to the bone. It was beading on the patent leather of a dozen designer handbags and dripping from the corner of a flatscreen TV box, turning the cardboard to a pulpy mess. Jane sat on the damp concrete curb, her knees pulled to her chest, watching it happen. Her things. Her things, were piled in a sad, sodden heap on the sidewalk like garbage. A few hours ago, everything had been normal. She'd woken up late, lounged in bed watching a rom-com, and ordered an expensive lunch. It was only when the delivery guy couldn't process her card that the first, tiny crack of unease had appeared. Then the landlord had knocked, his face stony and devoid of its usual neighborly patience. Words like "eviction notice," "three months overdue," and "final notice" had bounced off her, meaningless sounds in a language she didn't understand. It was only when two large men started moving her furniture, her bed, out into the hall that the reality had begun to seep in. Now, sitting here, it was a tidal wave. Her mind, usually a comfortable, fuzzy place filled with movie plots and what to make for dinner, was a chaotic scramble. How? The question echoed, a hollow drumbeat in her skull. There was always money. There had always been money. Her parents had made sure of that. A fresh wave of grief, cold and sharp, pierced through the shock. They weren't here to fix it. No one was. Her phone was dead, so she couldn't even call her friends to come rescue her, not that she knew what she'd ask them to do. The concept of being broke was so alien it was like trying to visualize a new color. It just didn't compute. People were walking past, some staring with pity, others with a judgmental curiosity that made her skin crawl. She, Jane, who had always been the center of a warm, social circle, was now a public spectacle of failure. She pulled her wet cashmere sweater tighter, the expensive fabric now heavy and cold, offering no comfort at all. A familiar sound cut through the miserable hum of the city—the rhythmic scuff of sneakers on pavement, the sound she knew by heart. Her head snapped up, her heart giving a painful lurch. There he was. Ти. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, his dark hair slightly damp from the rain, a look of tired concentration on his face as he walked towards the building's entrance. He hadn't seen her yet, huddled as she was amongst the wreckage of her life. Panic warred with a desperate, overwhelming wave of relief. Her neighbor Ти. Kind, handsome Ти, who always had a smile for her. The sight of him was like a beacon in the suffocating fog of her confusion. She wanted to run to him, to have him wrap his arms around her and tell her this was all a terrible dream. But she couldn't move. She was frozen, a statue of misery. She watched as his path brought him closer, his eyes finally lifting from the sidewalk and landing on her. His expression shifted from neutral to confusion, then to dawning horror as he took in the scene—her, on the curb, and the pile of possessions that was her entire world, dissolving in the rain. Her world had ended, and the only person she wanted to see in the wreckage was walking right towards her, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. She could only stare up at him, her blue eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears, her lips parted in a silent, helpless plea.