I'm exhausted when I get inside the tiny studio apartment.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I just stand there for a second, keys still in hand, letting the quiet wrap around me. The city's noise is distant here. Only the muffled hum of a neighbor's TV leaks through the thin walls. I kick off my shoes, drop my bag by the door, and fall face-first onto the mattress.
Tomorrow, before my night shift, I have to check on Mom again.
But right now … I'm just so tired.
The last thing I remember is lying sideways on the bed, scrolling halfheartedly through my phone, the lemon candy still in my palm. I meant to eat it. I didn't. I fall asleep like that—no blanket, no lights, shoes still half on, Noah's missed call blinking across my screen like a lighthouse I never reached.
***
