The ceiling fan above my bed had exactly forty-three water stains. I knew because I'd counted them seventeen times in the past three hours, lying here in the dark, my phone clutched against my chest like some kind of lifeline I was too terrified to actually use. 3:47 AM. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I'd been staring at Maya's contact information for the last twenty minutes, my thumb hovering over her name, pulling back, hovering again. The blue light from my screen cast shadows across my cramped studio apartment, highlighting the chaos that had become my life—unpaid bills scattered across the coffee table, half-packed boxes stacked against the wall, the eviction notice taped to my door that I'd pretended not to see for the past week. *She's probably asleep*, I told myself for the hundredth time. *She has work in the morning. She has her own life. Her own problems.* But my problems had just gotten so much worse. I pulled up our text thread, scrolling through weeks of messages. Maya sending me memes at inappropriate hours. Me venting about my nightmare boss. Her trying to convince me to quit that toxic job for months. Screenshots of terrible dating app profiles. Inside jokes that made no sense to anyone but us. The last message was from yesterday: Maya asking if I wanted to grab coffee this weekend, me saying I'd let her know. God, what I wouldn't give for my biggest problem to be finding time for coffee. My phone buzzed with an email notification, and my stomach dropped. Another one. I didn't need to open it to know what it said—they'd all said the same thing for the past six hours, ever since I'd discovered what my ex-boyfriend Derek had done. *Unauthorized charge: $2,847.62* *Unauthorized charge: $1,234.99* *Unauthorized charge: $3,456.21* Seven emails total. Seven charges I never made, on credit cards I'd been stupid enough to put his name on when we were together, when I'd actually believed his promises about building a future together. When I'd thought "what's mine is yours" was romantic instead of the biggest mistake of my life. $18,000. That's how much Derek had stolen from me before disappearing. Eighteen thousand dollars I didn't have, on cards that were maxed out in my name, with payments I couldn't make, for purchases he'd made while I was at work, probably laughing about how easy it had been to manipulate me. The credit card companies didn't care that I hadn't made the purchases. My name was on the accounts. My responsibility. My problem. I'd called the police. They'd taken a report, said they'd "look into it," in that tone that meant they absolutely wouldn't. Derek had covered his tracks too well—the purchases were all online, shipped to addresses I couldn't trace, made with cards he was technically authorized to use because I'd added him myself. "It's a civil matter," the officer had said, barely looking up from his paperwork. "You'll need to take him to court." Court. With what money? I could barely afford rent—or rather, I couldn't afford rent anymore, which is why that eviction notice was mocking me from across the room. I had $147.23 in my checking account. Rent was due in three days—$1,200 I didn't have. My landlord had already extended my deadline twice. There would be no third chance. My mom was dead. My dad might as well be—he'd made it clear when I turned eighteen that I was on my own. No siblings. No other family who gave a damn. Just Maya. Maya, who I'd met in college during freshman orientation when we'd both gotten hopelessly lost trying to find the library and ended up stress-eating an entire pizza instead. Maya, who'd held my hair back during my twenty-first birthday disaster and never mentioned it again. Maya, who'd warned me about Derek from the start, who'd seen through his charm to the manipulation underneath, who'd never once said "I told you so" when everything fell apart. Maya, who had her own life, her own career as a graphic designer, her own apartment with her girlfriend Rachel, her own everything that didn't include being responsible for my catastrophic life choices. I couldn't ask her. I couldn't. Another email notification. Another charge. $892.45 this time. Derek was still spending. Still out there, using my money, destroying my credit, probably not thinking about me at all while I was here having a complete breakdown at 3:52 AM. My vision blurred. I was crying again, hot tears sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto my phone screen. I wiped them away angrily, but they kept coming. I had nowhere to go. No money. No options. In three days, I'd be on the street, and my credit was so destroyed now that I couldn't even rent another apartment if I somehow magically came up with first and last month's rent plus deposit. This was rock bottom. This was what it felt like to have absolutely nothing and no one. Except. Except I did have someone, didn't I? My thumb hovered over Maya's name again. My whole body was trembling now, anxiety crawling up my throat like something alive and choking. *She'll think you're pathetic*, the voice in my head whispered. *She'll finally see what everyone else sees—that you're a mess, a disaster, someone who can't handle their own life.* But another voice, quieter, reminded me of something Maya had said six months ago, after I'd apologized for calling her crying about Derek for the third time that week. "Sofia, stop apologizing for needing me. That's what best friends are for. I'd be hurt if you didn't call." I took a shaky breath. Then another. My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it, typing out words I could barely see through my tears: *Maya, I know it's late and I'm so sorry, but I really need help. Something bad happened and I don't know what to do. Are you awake?* I stared at the message for a long moment, my finger hovering over the send button. This was it. The moment I admitted I couldn't do this alone. The moment I became a burden. I hit send before I could delete it. The message showed as delivered. Then, nothing. Of course nothing. It was almost 4 AM. She was asleep like any normal person would be. I'd just have to wait until morning, spend the next few hours drowning in anxiety, wondering if I'd made a mistake, if I should send another message or just pretend the first one was a drunk text or— Three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen. Maya was typing. My heart stopped.