CLOCKING OUT DOESN’T MEAN LETTING GO
1199 Words
Apex empties out in stages, like no one wants to be the first to admit they’re done performing.
People linger by desks they don’t need, stretch conversations that ran out of substance an hour ago, laugh a little too loudly at nothing. I pack my bag slower than usual, checking my phone, then checking it again, like I’m waiting for something I don’t actually want to see.
Bella appears out of nowhere, leaning over my shoulder. “So,” she says, popping the word like it’s a balloon, “are we celebrating or pretending we’re mysterious and busy?”
“I’m going home,” I say. “I have—”
She gasps. Loud. Offended. “You just ate in front of half the program and you want to go home and fold into responsibility? No. Absolutely not.”
“I’m tired.”
“So are strippers, and they still show up,” she says, already grabbing her bag. “We’re going out.”
I turn to argue and nearly walk straight into Ryan, who’s standing too close, smiling too much.
“Great pitch today,” he says. “Didn’t expect that angle.”
I hold his gaze. “Neither did you.”
His smile tightens, then smooths out again. “Well, competition brings out surprises.”
Bella slides between us like she’s allergic to tension. “And on that note, we are leaving before anyone challenges anyone else to a LinkedIn duel.”
She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me away, not waiting for permission.
Outside, the air feels different. Cooler. Looser. Like the city is exhaling with us.
“Where are we even going?” I ask as she unlocks her car.
“Somewhere loud,” she says. “Somewhere with music that makes you forget your job title.”
“I don’t have a job title.”
“Exactly. Tragic.”
I hesitate as she opens the passenger door, glancing back at the building once more. The glass reflects the city lights now, not faces, not expectations. Somewhere inside, people are still talking, still measuring, still replaying the day.
I get in anyway.
Bella grins as she starts the car. “Good. Tonight, you’re not the responsible eldest daughter or the Apex prodigy or whatever narrative they’re building around you.”
“What am I, then?”
She pulls out into traffic, music already blasting. “Hot. Stressed. And overdue for bad decisions.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound surprising me.
The city blurs past the window as we drive, neon signs and streetlights smearing together, and for the first time all day, the pressure loosens its grip just a little.
I don’t know what the night is going to bring.
But I know I’m not ready to go home yet.
Bella doesn’t even put the car in park before she starts.
“Five minutes,” she says, leaning across the center console, finger in my face. “Not five Bella-minutes. Five real, adult, on-the-clock minutes.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“No, you acknowledged me. That’s different.”
I shut the door and jog up the walkway, already pulling my hair out of the low bun it’s been trapped in all day. The house looks the same as it always does—lights on, TV murmuring through the walls, the faint sound of someone arguing over something trivial. Normal. Familiar. Heavy in a way I don’t always notice until I’ve been away for twelve hours straight.
Inside, the smell of food hits me immediately. Something fried. Something comforting.
“Janyia?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “That you?”
“Yeah,” I answer, kicking off my shoes. “I’m back for a second.”
“For a second?” my dad echoes from the couch. “You teleport now?”
I round the corner and he grins at me, glasses low on his nose, remote in hand. One of my younger brothers is sprawled across the floor with a controller, shouting at the TV like it personally offended him.
“Hey, superstar,” my dad adds. “Your mom said you did something impressive today.”
I roll my eyes automatically, but I can’t stop the small smile that sneaks in. “She exaggerates.”
“She never exaggerates about you,” he says. “She exaggerates about everyone else.”
From the kitchen, my mom appears, wiping her hands on a towel. “Are you eating?”
“I can’t,” I say, already backing away. “I’m going out.”
Her eyebrows lift just a little. Not disapproval. More like surprise.
“At night?” she asks.
“I’m twenty-four,” I remind her gently.
“I know,” she says, just as gently. “I still get to be surprised.”
A horn blares outside. Long. Dramatic. Aggressive.
Bella.
My mom sighs. “That must be the friend.”
“That’s her,” I say, already turning toward the stairs. “I’ll be fast.”
“Janyia,” my dad calls after me, voice softer now. “You good?”
I pause for half a second, hand on the banister. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
Upstairs, my room feels too quiet after the day I’ve had. I strip out of my work clothes without ceremony, tugging open drawers, tossing things onto the bed. Nothing fancy. Nothing that looks like I tried too hard.
Another horn blast.
“OH MY GOD,” Bella yells from outside. “IF YOU’RE CONTEMPLATING YOUR LIFE PURPOSE, DO IT IN THE CAR.”
“I’M CHANGING,” I shout back.
“You could’ve changed your mindset by now!”
I grab a fitted black top, jeans that actually make me feel like myself, and slide into boots while hopping on one foot. My phone buzzes—Bella again.
Bella: I swear I will come in there.
Me: You wouldn’t survive my family.
Bella: Try me.
Downstairs, my mom looks up as I rush past.
“Be safe,” she says.
“I will.”
“And text me when you get there.”
“I’ll text you when Bella stops driving like a criminal.”
Outside, Bella is leaning against the car, arms crossed, red hair pulled up like she’s preparing for battle.
“You look good,” she says immediately, eyes lighting up. “See? This is why we don’t go straight from work.”
“Thank you for your patience,” I say dryly.
“I aged five years,” she replies, getting into the driver’s seat. “But it was worth it.”
As we pull away, my phone vibrates again.
A new notification.
Not my mom.
Eric.
Just my name. No punctuation. No explanation.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Bella clocks it instantly. “Who was that.”
“No one.”
She snorts. “You’re a terrible liar when you’re tired.”
I lock my phone and look out the window as the city lights start to multiply again, brighter now, louder, pulling us back in.
Whatever tonight is about to be, it’s already started.
- Writer
