The apartment is small. Sparse. Just enough floor space to feel like you’re not suffocating, but not enough to pretend you have your life together.

Through the window, the city hums below. A place you don’t know. A life you haven’t built yet.

Your phone buzzes on the counter—a reminder.

Tomorrow. First day.

A car horn blares outside. A dog barks somewhere down the street. Life is happening—loud and indifferent—while you stand in the middle of a room you barely recognize, wondering if this was a mistake.