Maci | Starting To Live

The week hurtles by at breakneck speed. How is it Friday already?

Between work and caring for my new furry roommate, I’ve not had time to think. Each day blurs into the next. Rounds of client calls, mock-ups, and revisions. Mornings start with brainstorming sessions, the kind that make me guzzle my weight in coffee, and afternoons vanish in a flurry of presentations and follow-ups. It’s exhausting, sure, but it’s also electric. People are actually listening to me. My ideas, my suggestions, they matter.

By today, I’ve found my rhythm. My steps are less wobbly, my confidence solidifying. I’ve avoided being alone with Ethan, which feels like a gold-star achievement on its own, and I’ve successfully dodged any major personal disasters. Progress.

It’s late afternoon, and the office is already slipping into its Friday wind-down. People are chatting about their weekend plans, the energy lighter, less frantic. Jane pops up at my desk, her grin as bright as the neon pink nails she’s drumming against the edge of the table. “Maci, you’ve been killing it this week. Seriously, well done. The clients are raving about your concepts already.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, my heart skipping at the praise. “Thank you. It’s been…a lot, but I’m glad the clients are happy.”

“Happy?” She snorts, shaking her head. “They’re over the moon. I haven’t seen anyone crack the Peterson account in their first week before. They’re like, impossible to impress.”

Her words send a fizz of pride coursing through me, but I try to keep my expression steady, casual. “I had great notes to work from.”

She leans in, winking. “Don’t downplay it. You’ve got instincts, Maci. Keep this up, and you’re going to shine here.”

Straightening, she gives me a little wave and strides back to her office, leaving me in a warm haze of accomplishment. I sink back into my chair, the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding melting away. This feeling, this moment, it’s everything. Hard work paying off and being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

But even in my happy haze, his name slips in, unbidden. Thorne.

Four days. Four whole days since I last saw him. No sightings. No cryptic texts. No run-ins charged with so much tension they could set off fireworks. Just… nothing.

Well, not nothing. There’s the text.

He suits you.

Three words. I’ve not stopped reading them since he sent them, turning them over in my mind. Was he teasing? Being polite? Showing actual interest? It’s maddening, the way he’s renting out so much space in my head over three stupid words. Three words that probably meant nothing.

But I can’t help myself. I’ve started typing out messages to him every hour this week, drafting them, deleting them, staring at the blinking cursor like it holds all the answers. I haven’t sent a single one. Because deep down, I know once I cross that line, there’s no uncrossing it.

So instead, I sit here, staring at those three words, letting them twist me into knots.

Emma slides into the chair next to mine, giving it a spin that makes me dizzy just watching. “Friday vibes. You ready?”

“For what?” I glance up from my screen.

“Drinks.” The answer comes from Ethan, who saunters over like he owns the air we’re breathing. Somehow, he even makes a smirk look slimy. “Team bonding. You’re coming, right? It’s tradition. Last Friday of the month.”

I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve even been out. The thought of spending extra time with Ethan, ew. The idea of hanging out with Emma? That’s different. This week, she’s been a constant. Random pictures, inside jokes about shitty TV shows, the kind of texts that feel like breathing room. She’s starting to feel like a real friend, and when was the last time I let myself have one of those? Oh right, never.

“Come on,” Emma nudges my arm, her grin infectious. “You’ve crushed your first week. You deserve a night out.”

Ethan leans in closer, and I resist the urge to lean all the way back. “Besides, it’s team bonding. Or should I say… bondage?” He winks like that’s supposed to land.

Emma’s eye roll is so aggressive it deserves its own standing ovation. “Wow, Ethan. You must’ve been workshopping that gem all week.”

I can’t help it, I snort, loud enough to earn a glare from him. He straightens, brushing off the moment like it’s dust on his jacket. “Whatever. Drinks are at six, straight from the office. The usual place. Be there.”

He struts off, and Emma waits precisely three seconds before turning back to me. “Please come. If for no other reason than to save me from suffering through his shitty jokes all night.”

Her pleading eyes should be illegal. I groan dramatically, but I’m already caving. “Fine. But I’ll meet you there. I’ve got to stop home first.”

“Fair enough,” she says, grinning. “Just don’t leave me with Mr ‘Oops, didn’t mean to grab your ass.’”

I burst out laughing, which earns a few curious looks from the desks nearby, but I don’t care. It feels good to laugh like this.

As soon as the day ends, I splurge on a taxi home. I shouldn’t, the responsible thing would be to take the bus and hoard what little is left in my account. But tonight feels different. I’ve been good. Too good. Years of saving, budgeting, and surviving have etched themselves into my bones, but tonight I’m letting it go. Just a little.

Mike never let me have friends. Never let me drink. Never let me go out. Every single thing had to be approved, monitored, controlled. And now? Now I’m texting someone who might actually care if I don’t show up. I’m going out for drinks, and no one can tell me no.

The rebellion feels as sweet as it does terrifying.

Back at my apartment, Trouble greets me with all the drama of a seasoned performer. He flops onto the floor in front of me, legs splayed out. “Hey, you little diva,” I say, scooping him up despite his exaggerated meow of protest. Of course, the indignation lasts all of two seconds before he’s purring in my arms, his head pressing into my hand as I scratch behind his ears.

He still amazes me. I got home Monday night, and there he was, sitting on my step like he’d been waiting for me all his life. One stroke and the little bastard decided he was moving in. He’s barely left my bed since, content to lounge like a king and sleep his days away. Honestly, it’s fine by me. He’s good company; silent, judgy, and occasionally affectionate. My kind of roommate.

I plop him onto the sofa, and he gives me a look that screams betrayal before curling into a dramatic loaf. Rolling my eyes, I head to the kitchen to clean his food bowl. Once it’s spotless, I fill it with the absurdly overpriced raw cat food I caved and bought, because obviously Trouble demands only the finest. It meant skipping dinner for me that night, but watching him eat like he’s dining at a five-star restaurant almost makes it worth it. Almost.

After feeding His Majesty and tidying up the battlefield of toys scattered everywhere (how does he make this much mess when I never actually see him playing?), I turn my attention to my closet. Closet is generous, it’s more of a cupboard I shove everything into and hope for the best. Tonight, though, it has a mission: make me look like I’ve got my shit together.

I wrestle free my trusty black skinny jeans, the ones with strategic rips and just enough stretch to hug my curves. Then I pull out a black tank top that clings in all the right places and shows off my ink. It’s perfect. Very me.

Lying on the bed, I wriggle into the jeans with just a twinge of panic when the zipper hesitates. After an Olympic-level effort, I manage to zip them up and stand, wincing as I realise sitting tonight is going to be a challenge. Fashion over function, always.

The tank top slides on easily, it’s slightly longer hem skimming my belly just enough to keep me comfortable. People rarely look below my shoulders anyway, the patchwork of tattoos on my arms usually steals the show. Well, that and my tits, which even I’ll admit are a standout feature.

Stopping by the mirror, I take stock. My base from earlier has held up surprisingly well. A quick sweep of powder takes care of any shine, and my pale complexion is still smooth and even. My brows are glued down and flawless, the black pomade sharp as hell. I add a pop of pussy-pink blush high on my cheekbones, blending it onto my eyelids for a soft, cohesive glow. Then comes the pièce de résistance: a thick black wing that I could apply in my sleep after years of practice. I finish with my favourite wispy lashes and a swipe of glittery lip gloss. Perfect.

Sliding on my stompy black boots, the ones with a platform and a ring of spikes that could double as a weapon, I feel ready. I give Trouble one last pat, his purr a lazy rumble of approval, and lock the door behind me.

Phone, keys, wallet, lip gloss, eyelash glue. All accounted for. The bar is only a short walk away, and the cool evening air feels like a welcome hug. I take my time, letting the excitement bubble up with each step. For the first time, I feel like I’m not surviving.

I might be starting to live.