Stalking Emily Saving Emily

EMILY The thing about hitting rock bottom is that nobody tells you how long it takes to get there. You think it's sudden. One moment you're fine, the next you're not. Like a bone snapping clean through. But I've been falling for thirty days. And the ground still hasn't reached me yet. At some point I stopped bracing for impact and started treating the fall like a commute. Unpleasant and inevitable. Something to endure until it's over. Tonight, I endured it in a polyester uniform that was one size too tight in the shoulders and one size too loose everywhere else. I balanced a tray of drinks I did not fully trust myself to deliver without incident, on the rooftop of a hotel that cost more per night than my monthly MetroCard budget. Table seven was a bachelorette party. Table seven had been a bachelorette party for four hours. The bride wore a sash that said FINALLY and had the look of someone reconsidering everything. I recognized that look intimately. I'd worn it myself eighteen months ago, standing in Rowan's kitchen at seven in the morning, watching him leave for a work trip I would later learn had not been a work trip at all. I set the drinks down without spilling them. Small victory. I'll take it. In the past thirty days, I've learned to celebrate small victories, since the large ones were on indefinite leave. The large defeats, however, were punctual. Thirty days ago, I had a marketing job in Midtown and a one-bedroom in Crown Heights I could barely afford. Twenty-eight days ago, I was fired. The official reason was that they were restructuring. But I know the actual reason was Dex's second video going viral. By then, my name trended alongside phrases like toxic, homewrecker, emotionally manipulative, and actually kind of scary if you think about it. My company did the math on brand association. I didn't make the cut. Twenty-two days ago, my mother called to say she wasn't angry, just disappointed. It was the same tone she'd used when I decided I wasn't interested in pre-med and dropped it. When I missed Christmas for Rowan. When I moved in with Dex after four months. Fourteen voicemails since then. I haven't listened to one. Tonight, thirty days in, I'm balancing drinks on a rooftop and trying very hard not to check my phone. My restraint lasted about a minute. Dex had posted again. I knew reading the comments was a terrible idea. But I couldn't help it. I must have a thing for pain. The comments were not kind. The video wasn't even about me directly, which was worse. It was about his healing journey. About recognizing emotional unavailability and choosing yourself. He looked incredible. Fresh haircut. He'd gotten so good at turning pain into paychecks, aesthetically. With me being the muse. Caption: Choose peace. Forty-three thousand likes. A verified account called him brave. I slid my phone into my apron pocket and picked up an empty tray. I am fine. A mantra I keep repeating in my head to get by. I am not fine. But in thirty days, I'd mastered the art of functioning while not fine. Because that's the only option. "More bread," table three called. I went to get more bread. I was passing the service station when my heel found a patch of floor slightly wetter than the rest. For one suspended moment, I was horizontal. I caught the metal counter. The tray did not survive. Two glasses shattered. The bread basket rolled with alarming determination toward table four and stopped against the polished shoe of a man in a suit who looked up from his phone and considered whether to be annoyed. He chose annoyed. "I'm so sorry," I said. I say those three words so often lately they no longer feel like language. Just white noise with guilt attached. Thankfully, my boss wasn't here to see me fumble. I'm already one more I'm sorry away from bawling my eyes out, and I would really like to end tonight with dry eyes. I cleaned. Replaced. Delivered the bread to table three. Then I stood at the service station, placed my hands flat against cool metal, eyes closed. I allowed myself fifteen seconds. Breathed in. Breathed out. Fifteen seconds of not falling. The shift ended at eleven. The other waitstaff left quickly. Their movements were quick, like their attention was already fixed on what comes next. I lingered. I wasn't eager to return to an apartment I've been quietly avoiding ever since I went home three days ago to find someone had looked through my mail and left scratch marks on my door's keyhole. Nothing was taken. Which bugged me more. I took the stairs to the roof to retrieve my jacket from the storage closet. The rooftop at eleven was different. At seven, it was curated magic with string lights, cocktails and skyline theatre. At eleven, it was real. Wind blowing off the river. City noise without polish. I slipped on my jacket and stepped to the low railing. From up here, New York never looked like it was struggling. But somewhere below were thousands of people having their worst month. The city did not react to them. Taxis moved. Lights blinked. Someone argued on a corner. The system worked. I stood at the railing longer than necessary and wondered what I would look like from down there. One slip from here and it'd all be over. No more hate comments. No more voicemails. No more scratch marks on my door. If there were, I'd be too gone to know or care. I could just not. "No," I murmured. Not tonight. Not in a polyester uniform. Not as a headline: Disgraced Ex-Girlfriend Jumps. If I ever left dramatically, it would at least be interesting. I stepped back from the railing and picked up my bag. My heel hit wet roof. And this time I didn't catch myself. The world tilted with no warning. And the city rushing up. Maybe fate decided for me.