Is that what happened?Vaguely, I recall a drunken night at some party, but wasn’t thatafterhe cheated on me first?
“I... Listen, Michael, that’s in the past. I wanted to talk about our future—” I try to keep my voice calm, attempting to salvage the conversation—and a roof over my head.
“Stop wasting my time, you absolute mess.” Michael’s words echo as he hangs up, leaving me seething with disbelief. I stare at my cell, raging he got the final say. I’m tempted to call back and unleash a torrent of insults, but there’s no point.
I continue scrolling through my contacts list, difficult through my blurred eyes and shaking hands. ‘Howard Turner–Father’ stands out, beckoning like a yawning abyss. ‘Father’ is more a fanciful wish than a reality—a promise of heart-wrenching disappointment with the faintest sliver of a fantastic dream.
Surely now, in my greatest hour of need, he will answer?
A surge of hope drives me as I call the number I shouldn’t have. This feels right, like in the movies. My father will step up when I need him most. All the positive karma I’ve earned,enduring such undeserved hatred and disdain, is about to be vindicated.
“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Howard Turner. Angela speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hello, Angela.” Tears catch in my throat, surprising even myself. “This is Alexandra, Howard’s daughter. I was hoping—”
“I’m sorry Alexandra. As I mentioned last time, Mr. Turner has instructed me to refuse your calls.” Angela’s words cut deep, familiar, and bitter, like a recurring nightmare. My heart sinks, the faint glimmer of hope smothered almost instantly. It’s like a punch to the gut, the air rushing out of my lungs.
“Please, Angela, just a moment of his time,” I plead, my voice breaking despite my efforts to sound composed. “I really need to speak with him. It’s important.”
There’s a brief silence on the other end, and I imagine Angela hesitating, perhaps feeling a pang of sympathy. But then her professional, detached tone returns. “I’m truly sorry, Alexandra. Mr. Turner is very clear about his wishes. Have a good day.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my cell, the emptiness of the dial tone echoing the hollow ache in my chest. The room closes in around me, the weight of rejection pressing down, suffocating.How could I have let myself hope?
This is it. My life’s over.
Uncontrollable sobs wrack my body, the chasm in my heart opens like a festering wound. A void in my soul that can never be filled, no matter what I do. It threatens to swallow me, turning me inside out. I want to surrender to the despair which clings like an old toxic friend, so I don’t have to try anymore. I just want to be left alone.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupts as I bury my head in my arms on the cafe table. “Madam, excuse me?” she insists, louder.
I lift my head, wiping tears away. A staff member offers me a handkerchief with a smile that doesn’t touch her dark eyes. “I’msorry, but I must ask you to leave. You’re disturbing the other guests.”
I rise, towering over her petite frame, but instead of anger, I feel only despair and embarrassment.
My eyes scan the spacious cafe, noticing the whispering faces eyeing me with disapproval.Even here, my favorite refuge, I’m rejected. I smooth out my Chanel suit and straighten, summoning the last shreds of dignity.
“My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your lunch.” I incline my head and march out of the cafe, ramrod straight, as I was taught at that dreadful Miss Cutter’s School.
Despite the bustling streets and the noisy honking cars, I’ve never felt so utterly alone. Tears shake my body as I attempt to stem the flow with the useless handkerchief. I can never show my face in Distro Bistro again—even if I could afford it!
Total despair consumes me, but it’s lost in a sea of blank faces. I might as well be invisible. Despite my expensive clothes and streaming tears, it means nothing. Nothing I do matters; the only result is more pain. The few passersby who notice me recoil as if I carry some horrible disease that might be catching.
I hate them; I hate them all—the interviewers, James, Michael, my mother, and my father. They’ve all abandoned me. But worst of all, I hate myself for letting things get to this point, for being so weak and so easily manipulated. And they hate me too—it’d be better if I wasn’t here. It makes sense. All that remains for me is a harsh life on the streets.
I’d rather die.
So that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Driven by hopelessness and seething resentment, I march toward the Brooklyn Bridge. I make quick time, or at least it feels quick, with my mind consumed by frantic thoughts. Wondering how they’ll react when they hear the news. They’ll probably be glad to be rid of me. My mother never wanted me in the firstplace. She couldn’t wait to get rid of me. My father... will he even notice?
A twisted excitement blooms inside me. Maybe he’ll attend my funeral, seeing his daughter for the first time. He’ll cry over my broken, beautiful body, filled with regret for ignoring me all these years. He could’ve stopped this; they both could’ve. I hope it haunts them forever.
Tourists fill the pedestrian walkway of the bridge, snapping pictures with smiling faces.I envy them.But they give me an idea—a last farewell social media post. I pose as the cold wind whips through my long wavy hair, my expression sad. It looks poignant, with a stunning background.
I title the post “Farewell.”
My courage wavers, staring out at the dark, churning waters of the East River below. I grip the railings, the cold metal biting into my palms, grounding me in this moment. Only my trembling fear and climbable railing bar my path. I contemplate the finality of this act, what all led me to this moment. I imagine the plummet, the sensation offailing, the wind rushing over my body, through my hair, a final caress before peaceful nothingness. The thought is both terrifying and strangely comforting.
I place my foot against the railing. The assembled tourists gasp and point toward the way I came, some scream. Panic quickens my pulse, and I turn in disbelief that so many would react so quickly. But it’s not me they’re reacting to. In the distance, a towering figure barrels down the bridge at an incredible speed. The sight of the armored titan fills me with absolute dread as I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
