The crack hadn’t been there the night before. Liora Hayes stood in the doorway of her tiny kitchen, blinking at the thin, jagged line that had crawled across the wall overnight—like something alive, something quiet and creeping. Morning light slanted through the grimy window, catching the fracture at an angle that made it seem deeper than it was, a shadow pretending to be a canyon.
It looked like fear.
Thin. Spreading. Pretending it wasn’t about to break everything open.
She blew a strand of hair from her face. “Great. Another thing.”
The ceiling fan clacked overhead, wobbling with the stubborn determination of an appliance one screw away from disaster. The kettle complained as it heated, wheezing more than boiling. The refrigerator hummed just loud enough to irritate her, and the floor beneath her feet dipped in that familiar way that meant the foundation was still shifting, worsening, waiting. Her apartment was a collection of small, decaying details—each one survivable, none of them ignorable.
A perfect reflection of her life.
She pulled open a cabinet and frowned at the meager contents: a half-full bag of oats, instant coffee, and a jar of peanut butter someone had gifted her three months ago. Breakfast of champions.
She scooped oats into a chipped bowl and doused it with hot water, stirring until it resembled something edible. Leaning against the counter, she finally checked her phone.
Five new emails from clients.
Three overdue bill reminders.
One notification from the utility company.
And an automated message reminding her rent was due in five days.
She closed her eyes and inhaled carefully through her nose. She didn’t have time to panic. She had twenty minutes before she needed to leave for a client meeting. And if this one didn’t go well—if this client joined the list of “exposure payments” or “budget restrictions”—she would be in deeper trouble than she could afford.
A soft thump sounded from the bedroom.
Her mother.
Liora set down her bowl and crossed the apartment in three steps, nudging the door open quietly. Her mother slept curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, dark hair scattered across the pillow. She looked peaceful. Fragile. Younger than she should.
Liora’s chest tightened.
Her mother always woke in spirals—memories she couldn’t untangle, anxieties she couldn’t outrun, emotions that came too fast and too heavy for her to hold. Some days were good. Most were not.
Today… well. Liora couldn’t afford for it to be a bad one.
She closed the door gently and returned to the kitchen, grabbing her portfolio from the table. A stack of fabric samples slipped out, scattering across the floor in a muted, depressing rainbow.
“Seriously?” she muttered.
She dropped to her knees, scooping them up, smoothing the creases. These samples cost money she didn’t have. Every wrinkle felt personal. She slid them back into the binder along with her presentation boards, sliding straps tight to keep everything from bursting again.
Keys. Phone. Sketchpad. Tape measure. Emergency sewing kit—because once a client expected her to fix a torn curtain in fifteen minutes and called it an “interior design emergency.” Lip balm. Portable charger. Breath mints.
She looked like a woman preparing for war.
She was, in a way.
Before leaving, she poked her head back into her mother’s room. “I’m heading out for a few hours,” she whispered. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
No answer, but her mother’s breathing was steady. Liora exhaled in relief.
Then came the last hurdle: the apartment door.
She opened it and nearly groaned when she saw the hallway.
Great. The elevator was broken—again.
The handwritten “OUT OF ORDER” sign was crooked, as if even the tape had given up on trying to stick to the walls of this building. She adjusted her bag, braced her foot on the first step of the staircase, and climbed five flights down.
On the second floor, she remembered she’d forgotten her presentation board.
“Of course,” she muttered, turning and dragging herself back up.
Two flights up, her thighs burned. Three flights up, she swore under her breath. Five flights up, she retrieved the board.
Then five flights down, again.
By the time she reached the building’s lobby—if one could call a peeling linoleum floor and a broken mail unit a “lobby”—she was sweating, breathless, and dangerously close to giving in to the morning’s chaos.
But quitting wasn’t an option.
Quitting meant eviction.
Eviction meant her mother would unravel.
Unraveling meant her brother would lose the only stable home he had.
She squared her shoulders, pushed open the front door, and stepped onto the street.
The city greeted her with the usual combination of noise and urgency: honking taxis, vendors setting up carts, commuters speed-walking with caffeine in hand. Sunlight glinted off high-rise buildings—the kind of buildings Liora dreamed of designing instead of just decorating on a shoestring budget.
She glanced at one, imagining it differently. Cleaner lines. Warmer lighting. Better textures. A more intuitive layout.
Her thoughts always returned to design, even when she was exhausted. Even when she was overwhelmed. It wasn’t just work; it was the only part of her life that made sense. The one thing she could control.
She boarded the bus, clutching the pole as it lurched into motion. Her phone vibrated again.
Another bill reminder.
She turned the screen face-down.
Outside, the city passed in a blur—storefronts, glass towers, a dog daycare shaped like a fire hydrant, a construction site that had been “almost done” for the entire year. She tried to mentally rehearse her client pitch, but her mind kept drifting.
To the hairline crack.
The eviction notice she feared was coming.
Her mother’s sleep.
Her brother’s quiet eyes.
The weight pressed at her chest, but she didn’t let it in. Pressure was normal. Panic was optional.
She would survive the day. She always did.
When she stepped off the bus and approached her client’s building, she straightened her spine. The tall brownstone loomed overhead, pristine and intimidating. Someone wealthy lived here. Someone demanding. Someone who might finally give her a real paycheck.
She checked her reflection in the glass door. Not perfect, but passable. She tucked a curl behind her ear, adjusted the strap of her portfolio bag, and rang the buzzer.
A voice crackled through the speaker. “You’re late.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Good morning to you too.”
The lock clicked.
She entered the building, heels clicking against polished marble floors, nerves tight but determined.
No matter how the day went, she reminded herself of one truth:
She had survived far worse mornings than this.
Inside the silent foyer, she drew a deep breath, pushed the apartment door open— and walked straight into chaos waiting on the other side.
For now, all Liora had was this moment: the sting of responsibility, the burn of frustration, the stubborn thread of hope woven through her exhaustion.
And the hairline crack forming in her life long before she realized it wasn’t a problem to fix— it was a warning.
