Chapter 1: Mostly Fine

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I woke up before my alarm again.

Six in the morning on a Monday that mirrored every other Monday since I moved out of the shared space with Jordan eight months ago. Gray sky through gray blinds, and me lying here staring at the ceiling, waiting for answers that never come.

It didn’t.

I rolled out of bed and did the same dance I’d been doing since the divorce papers got signed. Bathroom. Kitchen. Earl Gray tea in the blue mug, not the white one, because Monday meant blue mug. Don’t ask me why. You decide some things, and then you keep doing them until you forget any other way ever existed.

My apartment could’ve been a magazine spread, Successful Black Woman Living Her Best Life. Exposed brick wall that cost extra. Floating shelves with books I’d read and books I pretended to read. Abstract art that matched the throw pillows that matched the rug that matched absolutely nothing about who I actually was.

The one plant Teylor gave me sat dying on the windowsill. Half the leaves had gone brown and crispy, but I kept watering it, anyway. Seemed cruel to abandon anything because it wasn’t flourishing.

I smoothed my blouse, checked my reflection, and glanced away quickly. Some mornings, I could pretend I saw someone gazing back confidently. This wasn’t one of those mornings.

If everything appears right, it can’t be falling apart. Right?

Phone buzzed: Reminder - Dr. Dree Mathis 8:30 a.m.

Monday therapy. Another thing that had become routine.

Miss Dree’s office carried the scent of my grandmother’s kitchen— cloves and brown sugar and what I couldn’t name but trusted, anyway. Old jazz played softly, sufficient to fill the quiet spaces. She had a manner that made you believe you’d been coming here your whole life, even when you’d only been coming eight months.

“How was your week, Camryn?”

I sat down in the leather chair that had molded to my body by now, crossed my ankles the way Mama taught me. “Fine. Work’s good. Got through a big rebrand for that new spot in Southpoint. Sleep’s been... fine.”

Her gaze held steady. Miss Dree had this thing where she’d repeat your words back and turn them into lies.

“Fine.”

“Yeah. Good. No complaints.” I smoothed my skirt even though it didn’t need smoothing. “I think I’m adjusting well.”

She settled back in her chair, all seventy years of her taking up space with every right to be exactly where she was. Her locs were silver and twisted into a crown, and she wore burnt-orange linen that moved with her every breath. She remained silent for an extended period, observing me as if I were a book penned in a language understood only by her.

I started picking at my nail polish.

“You ever notice how your ‘fine’ always sounds like it’s holding its breath?”

The question hit me sideways. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded. She’d anticipated that answer. “How do you experience being alive?”

“I... what kind of question is that?”

“The kind that might tell us anything useful. Alive. Present. Connected to yourself.”

I shifted around, avoiding her eyes. Her bookshelves went floor to ceiling, filled with everything from Maya Angelou to bell hooks to books I’d never heard of but wanted to read. “I enjoy things remaining consistent.”

“Steady isn’t the same as alive.”

My chest went tight. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. Working, taking care of myself, showing up here…”

“You are. And that matters.” Her voice got softer, but not easier. “I’m curious about what you want to be doing.”

Want. The word sat foreign in my mouth. Want struck me as messy and urgent and out of control, and I’d spent so much time making sure my life was none of those things.

“I don’t know,” I say, and it was the first honest thing I’d said since I walked in.

Teylor was already at the café when I got there, gold grills flashing as they laughed at their phone. As soon as my shadow hit their table, they glanced up with a grin that meant they were about to say what I didn’t want to hear.

“There she is. Miss I’m-Fine-Everything’s-Fine.”

“Don’t start.” I sat down and put my purse exactly where it needed to go. Everything in its place.

“Let me guess what you’re ordering.” They didn’t wait for me to answer. “Raspberry tea and a salad with dressing on the side.”

“I like routine.”

“You like control. Big difference.” They waved the server over and ordered my lunch, plus food with enough hot sauce to kill a horse. “So, how’s the single life? Still fine?”

“It’s peaceful.”

“Jesus, Cam. You got any other words in that vocabulary?”

The wind picked up and shook the leaves over our heads. All around us, people were living their lives out loud talking with their hands, laughing too much, leaning into each other like they’d never heard of personal space. At the table next to us, two women sat close enough to share the same air, one of them resting her hand on the other’s arm like it belonged there.

I watched them and anxiety coiled in my stomach.

“It’s not boring,” I say. “It’s calm.”

“Uh-huh.” Teylor sat back and studied me as though I was a puzzle with missing pieces. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you seem to be sleepwalking through your own life. When’s the last time you did anything simply because you wanted to?”

I opened my mouth to answer and came up empty. Want. There it was again. Why did everybody keep asking me about wanting things?

“I wanted to have lunch with you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.” They leaned forward, voice getting that gentle but firm tone they’d been using on me since we were kids. You ever consider that you’re not bored, that you’re afraid to want anything different?”

The words found a soft spot I’d been trying to ignore. “That’s not it.” Took me a second to keep going. “I don’t think.”

“When’s the last time you surprised yourself?”

I twisted my napkin into a tight rope. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Or you don’t like not being in control.”

They weren’t wrong. Control promised safety. Control meant nobody could leave you sitting in an empty apartment, wondering where all the air had gone. Control meant nobody could see the parts of you that might not be enough.

Sitting there, watching Teylor watch me with all that patient love, a voice whispered in the back of my mind: What if control is merely fear elegantly presented?

Back home, I stood at the sink washing dishes I’d barely used. One plate. One cup. One fork. The water ran longer than necessary while I stared out at the street, where people moved with purpose, as though they had somewhere important to be.

My phone buzzed.

Oni: Pre-Pride Rooftop Poetry Event, Friday, 7:00 p.m. Black queer joy and snacks. You should come.

I read it twice. Oni's events always featured people I didn't know, conversations I couldn't readily join, and an overwhelming yet inviting excitement. The spaces where everybody else appeared to have gotten some manual on how to belong, that I’d never received.

I typed: Thanks, but I’ll be pretty tired.

Deleted it.

Typed: Maybe next time.

Deleted that too.

The apartment seemed to close in on me. Even the dying plant seemed to reach toward the window, trying to escape to somewhere better.

My fingers moved before my brain caught up: I’ll be there.

I hit send before I could stop myself and set the phone down, my reflection gazing back from the dark screen, resembling a stranger wearing my face.

If I hate it, I’ll leave early, I told myself, already heading toward my closet. If I love it...

That suddenly became the scary part.