Fallout

The first morning on her own started with a door that stuck a little and a window that didn’t quite shut out the city noise. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and someone else’s takeout. The building manager had called it a “junior one-bedroom.” It was more like a studio with aspirations. A narrow kitchenette pressed along one wall: two burners, a bar sink, a mini fridge trying hard. A table the size of a chessboard sat by the window, and next to it, a futon that unfolded into a bed if you coaxed it.

Mya stood in the middle and listened. No staff moving down the hall. No clipped voice asking for her RSVP. No Lorraine tapping a spoon at breakfast. Just traffic, a siren somewhere far away, a dog barking on a lower floor. It was messy and a little loud and hers until she couldnt afford it anymore, which would be in less than two more days.

She made coffee on the stovetop and watched it bloom. It tasted regular. Not imported, not nonsense. She burned her tongue and smiled, because it felt like proof that she was real.

Her phone buzzed on the table—ten, twenty, then thirty notifications in a minute. Group chats she didn’t remember joining. Numbers she didn’t recognize. A few names she knew very well.

She flipped the phone face down and carried her mug out to the small fire escape beyond the window. The gray metal warmed her bare feet through last night’s heat. Below, a bakery was already doing business; the smell of croissants drifted up, and a man in a flour-dusted apron rolled racks toward the sidewalk. A woman in a yellow raincoat tugged at her toddler’s sleeve, laughing. Illegal to be this ordinary, she thought. Glorious.

She’d told the rideshare driver to drop her two blocks away last night, out of old habit—privacy as reflex. She hadn’t brought much: the suitcase that was the size of a carry-on, a tote with toiletries, two dresses, jeans, a white blouse, her small jewelry. She put the carry-on under the bed and the tote in the bathroom and felt lighter than she had in years.

Her phone buzzed again. A new notification pushed to the top of the pile. This one was a news alert, not a text.

She turned the phone over with a sigh, already bracing, and tapped.

A glossy morning show. A reporter standing in front of iron gates she knew well. On the bottom of the screen ran a banner: “Smith Industries’ Damon Smith Is Reportedly Going Through a Divorce.” The anchor’s voice floated over it, smooth and sympathetic in that strange way TV had of making everything feel like weather.

“Our sources tell us his now ex-wife, Mya, left just last night and there was no official announcement,” the anchor said. “Details are still emerging.”

The camera cut away from the anchor to a street-level shot. A different reporter, hair perfect in the wind, stood outside the gates with a microphone. She turned to a pair of women lingering near the sidewalk, both of them dressed for a morning jog they weren’t taking.

“Did you hear about the divorce?” the reporter asked.

One of the women widened her eyes right on cue. “We saw some things on social media,” she said, drawing out the word “saw” like it tasted delicious. “There were rumors for a while.”

“Rumors of what?” the reporter prompted, because the machine only worked if you fed it.

“Infidelity,” the other woman whispered theatrically, leaning in. “I mean look at her, she was always flirting around.”

The camera cut to a man in a suit, phone in hand, pretending not to care while caring deeply. “Never liked her,” he said, shrugging. “She was… what’s the word? Decorative.”

Decorative. Harmless. The words circled like birds that couldn’t find a landing, and for a second, nausea rose in Mya, hot and fast.

The feed jumped again: a shaky phone video from someone in a black town car. The camera framed the mansion’s front steps. You could see a woman in a crimson dress in the background—the exact dress Mya had chosen yesterday—small in the shot but bright. A voice narrated from inside the car: “That’s her. No announcement or anything. She just… left.”

The video cut, and the studio anchor reappeared, smiling the way anchors smile when they need to keep viewers on through a commercial.

“We’ll keep you updated as this story develops,” she said. “Up next: a rescue beagle that’s learning to skateboard.”

The segment ended. The world moved on because that’s what it does. Mya stared at the little black rectangle in her hand and breathed in and out until the trembling subsided.

Her phone rang. Not a text this time. A call. The name flashing on the screen was a number she’d once saved with a heart.

She let it ring until it stopped. Then she stood, went inside, and toggled off every alert from anyone she hadn’t personally invited into this new life. When she finished, the phone was quiet in a way that wasn’t empty. Peaceful.

She dressed in jeans and the white blouse and walked down to the bakery. The man in the flour apron nodded as if they were already neighbors.

“First time here?” he asked.

“First time anywhere like here,” she admitted.

“Best kind of first time.” He slid a paper bag across the counter. “On the house. Welcome to the block.”

She blinked at the kindness and had to bite down on an unexpected prickle behind her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it with her whole throat.

On the way back up, she passed a TV in the lobby tuned to a different morning show. Same headline. Same B-roll. A different set of faces offering the same practiced surprise. A man in a navy blazer made a face that said he loved the smell of “exclusive” in the morning.

“Without an official statement, speculation is rampant,” he said. “There are whispers she may have stepped out—”

“Whispers from who?” his co-host asked, eyebrows up.

“People close to the family,” he said, which meant people nowhere near the family but close to someone who wanted a mention.

The camera panned—because that was the directive she’d asked for—to a sidewalk where a trio of college kids pretended to be surprised on camera. One of them giggled, “I heard she only married him for the lifestyle.”

The other rolled her eyes. “Please. He probably traded up.”

“Or sideways,” the third said, and they all laughed at their own wit.

The building manager noticed Mya lingering and reached for the volume. “Do you want me to turn it off?” she asked gently.

Mya shook her head. “No, it’s fine.” She didn’t mean it, but she also didn’t want this kind woman to become her shield. “Thanks.”

The manager hesitated. “If you need anything,” she said, “I’m here. My name’s Pike.”

“Thanks, Pike.” Mya carried the bag upstairs like it weighed more than two croissants and a small imaginary future.

Back in her apartment, she ate at the tiny table and made a list. Not the kind of lists she’d been assigned for years—guest counts, seating charts, a thousand details to make other people look perfect. A small, stubborn list of her own.

New phone plan.

New bank account.

Work—something I choose.

A plant.

Curtains.

She finished the croissant and underlined “curtains.” She’d never chosen curtains before. She felt absurdly giddy at the prospect.

The phone vibrated again, a single text slipping past whatever settings she’d just flipped.

Unknown: You will regret this. Call me.

She didn’t need to guess. She deleted it without saving, without responding, without letting the words burrow under her skin. Then she turned the phone off entirely and opened the window wider to the sound of the bakery door opening and closing, the murmur of the city doing what it does best: forgetting one thing while starting another.

By noon, she’d set up a new phone plan under her own name and walked to a credit union that gave her a free tote for opening an account. The clerk was maybe twenty-two, cheeks pink with the importance of official tasks, and she didn’t recognize Mya at all. She offered a lollipop across the counter with the same solemnity she brought to routing numbers.

When Mya stepped back out into the afternoon, the sky had turned the color of a bruise about to fade. Wind tugged at her hair. She felt steady on the sidewalk, and it was such a revelation she nearly laughed out loud.

On her way home she ducked into a thrift store and bought a mug with a tiny chip on the rim, a glazed pot in deep green, and a rubber-banded stack of paperback mysteries. The whole thing cost less than a bottle of wine she’d once been told to appreciate.

At the corner, a television in a storefront window replayed the segment again with a new addendum. The network had found a clip of Sloane stepping out of a car last night in a dress like liquid mercury. She smiled for the cameras, chin tilted, and the caption read: “Monroe Seen at Charity Gala Amid Divorce Rumors.”

A commentator off-screen said, “Sources say Sloane and Damon have always been close. Some speculate their bond grew stronger in recent months.” The camera swung to a couple on the sidewalk, strangers holding takeout bags. The woman said, “I’m sure she knew what she was signing up for.” The man shrugged. “If you live that life, you accept the trade-offs.”

Mya watched herself become a mirror for other people’s stories and found she didn’t want to stand on that sidewalk and be part of the audience. She kept walking.

By late afternoon, her apartment looked slightly less like a room waiting for someone and more like a room someone had actually chosen. She rinsed the green pot and set it on the windowsill to wait for a plant. She shelved the books and put the chipped mug beside the coffee. She hung her jacket on the back of the chair, not on a valet stand where someone would later move it because “that’s not where it goes.” She put her cheap bracelet with the heart charm in the ceramic dish by the sink. It winked at her every time she turned on the water.

She was about to take a shower when the lock rattled—no, that couldn’t be right. She froze. Then the sound resolved into a knock. Three measured taps.

Her first instinct was the old one: make yourself small, make yourself agreeable, welcome whoever walks through your door.

Her second instinct, the one she decided to listen to, was new: ask who it is.

“Who is it?” she called.

A pause. Then a woman’s voice, calm and professional. “Ms. Smith? I’m with Channel Six. We wondered if you had a statement.”

Of course. Someone had found the lease or the rideshare drop or the bakery boy had recognized her at last. It didn’t matter how. It never did.

“No, thank you,” she said through the door.

“We’d love to give you a chance to share your side,” the woman coaxed. “There’s a lot being said out there.”

“There always is,” Mya said. “Have a good evening.”

A longer pause this time. Then footsteps retreating. She let out the breath she’d been holding and laughed quietly at the ceiling because she’d just told a camera crew to have a good evening through a hollow-core door in a junior one-bedroom.

Her phone—now the new number—buzzed with an unknown text.

Unknown: We can run something sympathetic. If you’d like to deny the cheating rumors—

She powered the phone down again and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Two pigeons argued on the fire escape railing. The smell of garlic and butter drifted up as the restaurant down the block opened for dinner.

The sky shifted slowly from bruise to lavender to that particular blue that belongs only to cities at dusk. Streetlights blinked on. A neighbor laughed on the landing outside and apologized in a whisper. Somewhere a saxophone practiced scales badly and earnestly. It felt like being backstage at something real.

When she finally showered, she stayed under the water until the mirror fogged and the last traces of incense and lemon polish lifted from her skin. After, she wrapped herself in a towel and stood in front of the mirror with a comb, dragging it gently through her hair while the apartment’s little fan whirred in the corner like a patient dog.

Her old phone—silent now because it was off, face down in the bottom of the tote—wasn’t entirely done with her. Even off, it felt like a presence in the room. A habit she’d have to break. She dug it out, stared at the dark screen, and then did something that felt ceremonial: she slid it into a drawer and closed it.

Dinner was buttered noodles from the pot and a tomato sliced with a knife she’d bought downstairs. She ate at the window and watched television on mute—the nightly news without voice-over. The crawl on the bottom of the screen said the same words again: “Smith Industries’ Damon Smith is reportedly going through a divorce… no official announcement… rumors swirl…” The camera panned, just like she’d asked, to groups of strangers gossiping on sidewalks. Their lips moved, but with the sound off, they looked like mimes.

She imagined turning the sound up just for the beagle on the skateboard.

She opened her notebook and wrote a few lines, then crossed them out because they sounded like speeches.

She tried again:

I left. I’m okay. I’m more than okay, I think. I’m hungry. I bought a mug. I didn’t cry at the bank. Pike is kind. The bakery man gave me a bag with two croissants and didn’t ask for anything back. I can hear music through the floor. I think the person above me cooks with cumin and garlic and I love them for it. I can choose curtains. I can choose silence. I can choose noise. I can choose.

Her pen hovered and then moved again:

They can say what they like. They’ve already been saying it. While they talk, I will make a life.

She closed the notebook and stood to wash the pot. The bracelet by the sink flashed again. She laughed softly because it was ridiculous and perfect, this little heart that refused to stop catching light.

Later, she pulled the futon flat and made the bed the way a kid makes a fort—more enthusiasm than craft. She cracked the window an inch and lay on her back in the cool air. The city had a different sleep than the suburbs—restless, forgiving. She slid her hand under the pillow and felt the firm edge of the folder with the copies of the papers, not because she needed to check they were still there but because it comforted her to touch something she had signed herself.

Her phone—new number—lit up once on the table with a message from Pike.

Pike: You okay? Need anything? I’m 3B.

Mya typed back: I’m okay. Thank you. I might ask you about curtain rods tomorrow.

Three dots. Then: I have a drill. Good night, Ms. Mya.

She slept.

Sometime toward morning, when the sky had that thin, forgiving light it gets before birds decide who owns what branch, she woke briefly to the murmur of a TV next door. A familiar cadence—anchors practicing concern like a scale. She rolled over and smiled into the pillow, and the smile was not bitter. It held a spark of something dangerously close to joy.

Whatever came next—misspelled captions, invented sources, strangers’ comments, the long arc of official statements and unofficial sabotage—it would arrive on its own schedule. She couldn’t stop any of it. But she had a door with a lock and a neighbor with a drill and a city with pigeons that did not care about anyone’s last name.

She closed her eyes and let the city’s sounds settle into a lullaby that didn’t try to flatter or instruct. It just was.

In the morning, she would buy a plant. She would look at curtain rods with Pilar. She would pick a coffee shop to call hers and learn the barista’s name and tip better than she could afford because the kindness from the bakery man had shifted something in her ribs. She would find work that didn’t require apology. She would carve out a path that had nothing to do with Lorraine’s charts or Caroline’s barbs or Damon’s phone lighting his face.

She turned onto her side and tucked one hand under her cheek. The last thought she had before sleep took her was small and plain and indescribably satisfying:

They can keep the announcements. I’ll keep the mornings.