Chapter 6 - The Silent Countdown
Saturday, December 31st. New Year’s Eve.
The city of Chicago was buzzing with anticipatory electricity. By late afternoon, the streets filled with lines of cabs, crowds bundled in heavy scarves, and the faint, festive thrum of music spilling out from restaurants and hotels preparing to ring in the new year.
Inside my minimalist glass loft high above the street, things were entirely peaceful.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, adjusting the collar of a sleek, emerald-green silk dress that I had bought on a whim the day before. It was a color I never would have worn around my mother—she always told me green made me look washed out, that I should stick to beige and navy so I wouldn't "draw unnecessary attention to myself."
I spun slowly in front of the glass. The rich green fabric caught the warm light of the recessed ceiling fixtures, hugging my frame with quiet, effortless confidence. I applied a slick of dark berry lipstick, fastened a pair of silver drop earrings, and stepped into black leather heels.
For a moment, I walked over to the coffee table.
My primary phone was still sitting there, face down, exactly where I had left it two days ago. Out of idle curiosity, I picked it up and pressed the power button.
The screen flickered to life. The notification counter didn't show missed calls anymore; it showed a solid wall of angry, desperate text messages and voicemail notifications that my carrier had finally stopped trying to push through in real-time.
I swiped the screen without opening a single message, went straight to settings, and toggled the phone completely off. Then I dropped it into the bottom of my handbag, buried beneath a leather wallet and a pair of leather gloves.
Let them scream into the void. Let them spend their New Year's Eve frantically calling lawyers who couldn't help them, real estate agents who couldn't sell them back a sold property, and locksmiths who wouldn't touch a corporate-owned building. Their drama was no longer my ecosystem.
I stepped out of the loft, locked the heavy steel door behind me, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
The restaurant downtown was an intimate, candlelit French bistro tucked away on a quiet cobblestone alley. The air inside smelled of roasting garlic, melted butter, and vintage oak. When the host led me to my corner table, I didn't feel the awkward pang of self-consciousness that used to plague me when I ate alone in public. I felt light. Untethered. Powerful.
I ordered a dozen oysters, a plate of pan-seared duck breast, and a crisp, dry bottle of vintage champagne.
As the waiter poured the first glass of golden bubbles into my flute, I raised the glass to my own reflection in the dark windowpane.
"Happy New Year, Maris," I whispered to myself. "You survived."
May you like
By the time midnight struck and the sky outside erupted in a brilliant, glittering cascade of fireworks over Lake Michigan, I was finishing my dessert, listening to the soft jazz playing overhead. People around the room were clinking glasses, hugging strangers, and shouting celebratory greetings across tables.
I smiled warmly at the couple sitting at the table next to mine when they raised their glasses in my direction. I didn't need a countdown, a party, or a toxic family circle to validate my existence. I had built a new life out of the ashes of their entitlement, and not a single person in the world could take it away from me.
