I was bobbled from side to side on the bustling sidewalk because, even though the streets of New York City were always packed tighter than sardines, it seemed like every person in the city decided to walk today, too. Then again, it wasn’t any different from yesterday, or the day before that, or every day since the 1800s. I used my huge tote bag stuffed to the brim with at least a dozen files to shove a man in a business suit talking too loudly on his Bluetooth to the side, trying to clear a path. I failed. All I could see in front of me was his ambiguously feminine purple dress shirt that did not match his brown pants.

No one glanced twice at my business suit like everybody would have done back in my hometown. Here, my pencil skirt, blouse, and heels were the norm. Businessmen and women flourished in the city that never slept…and some of them had no fashion sense and talked too loudly on a Bluetooth about stocks that were falling. I couldn’t hear myself think. I could usually tune every noise around me out, but some days reminded me of when I had first moved to the city and hadn’t slept a wink for two weeks straight.

I glanced around at all the types of people that called this city home. Street performers dazzled people with their tricks; foreigners tried asking for directions in their native tongue to no avail; and then there were people like me, just wanting to get home. Each of them had a story, and I idly imagined how unique each one was. Looking at me, I wondered if people could tell my life story. Could they tell that I used to flinch at loud noises before getting accustomed to being screamed at (and screaming back) in the office on a daily basis? Could they tell that I had only been in the city for two years after graduating from the University of Michigan in 2022, finally settling in the city I’d wanted to be a part of since I was sixteen? Could they tell that dance used to be my life, before reality forced me to abandon my dreams? Clubbing, dancing around my house, and the tattoo on my ankle of the word that used to hold so much meaning were all that remained of my first aspiration.

When I thought about when I wanted to be when I got older as a kid, I wanted to be a princess. Later, my heart was set on being a dancer. Now, as a businesswoman, I reflected on how different all of these careers really were. I’d wanted fame, for people to listen to me when I spoke. I wanted my opinion to matter and to have the power to do something about it. Well, people didn’t move out of my way like they would have if I was royalty or on a red carpet, but my ideas certainly reached the ears of whoever was in the room when I voiced them. As far as I was concerned, I was the closest to being a Cinderella in the twenty-first century United States as I could get, and Manhattan was my kingdom.

The subway was just as bad as the sidewalks, with no space to breathe your own air and certainly no empty seat. I rested against the handrail, finally getting closer to my apartment. For the thousandth time, I pondered getting a pet so I would have someone to greet me when I got home. Dogs were too impractical for the city. Fish were dumb. A cat, maybe? I went over the pros and cons in my head for the twenty minute ride.

On the tenth floor of my apartment building, I had the pleasure of jamming my key into the keyhole, my feet aching in my heels. I collapsed inside my home, falling against the door and leaning on it for a minute before gathering the strength to move to my kitchen after locking and dead bolting my door. I smiled at the thought of my tater tot casserole leftovers. If nothing else remained of my small town characteristics, my mother’s cooking always would. I did better than most that grew up in the city in the cooking department; I only got takeout three or four times a week.

I admired my apartment while microwaving my late dinner. It wasn’t lavish, but it was nice, considering I’d only had to kill a c***roach twice in the two years I’d been living here, and big enough for me, myself, and I. The kitchen contained the essential appliances with quaint wooden cupboards and chipped counters. My dining room table was cluttered with papers most of the time, so I usually ate in the living room. A couch that I crashed on when I couldn’t make to it my bedroom, an overstuffed chair, and a TV that rarely got used except for Friends binges made up my living room. It was littered with stacks of books that I never had time to read and half a dozen partially empty water bottles.

Before pulling out my homework (Yes, in my line of work, I still had homework at twenty-six; eight of the thirteen folders I’d brought home required my immediate attention for the next day), I wiped my makeup off, clipped my hair back, and changed into much more comfortable clothes. Digging around in my closet, I eventually produced a pair of black Under Armor leggings I’d had since high school and an abused Bad Axe Hatchets Tennis sweatshirt to match. I grimaced while looking around my room, absentmindedly wondering how much worse it would look if a real twister swept through instead of my daily hectic decision of what to wear for the day. The next time my mom offered to buy me an ironing board, I don’t think I’d refuse. I took off the jewelry I’d worn for the day, adding them to my indulged collection. Some things never changed, I supposed, carefully maneuvering around a precariously high tower of literature. Books and jewelry would always be my hoarding items of choice.

Donning a pair of fuzzy socks to complete my lazy look, I blared my music to fill up the silence of my little home that still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and bacon, no matter how many candles I lit or how long my windows were open. I needed to vacuum and dust, but my laundry and dishes were my priorities on nights like tonight, when I would be staying up until midnight finishing reports. I wanted to cry at the thought of trekking all the way to the basement to wash my clothes, but I desperately needed to empty my overflowing basket.

I laughed under my breath the next moment, knowing myself too well to think that anything was going to get done tonight other than my office work. Besides, tomorrow night was Saturday night, the only night I didn’t have to worry about work the next day. One of my best friends from high school, Sam Rogers, was taking a break from her cancer research at NYU to make our Saturday nights what they used to be—fun. And in the city that never slept, our possibilities were limitless, much more so than they used to be in Huron County. Sunday would be another story. Laundry, dishes, cooking, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning out my fridge, calling mom, calling my sister, organizing for Monday, maybe writing a little, reading a few chapters…