The first few days after our dinner at the Mexican restaurant passed quietly. On the surface, nothing seemed different. Bethany went to work. I stayed at the apartment. I continued applying for jobs, though not with the same determination I had during my first week in Atlanta. Rejection emails arrived faster than interview requests. Every morning I opened my inbox hoping something would change. Every afternoon I found another polite message thanking me for my interest before informing me they had chosen someone else. At some point, I stopped expecting good news. I still submitted applications because it gave me something to do, but the hope behind them had begun to disappear. Every rejection felt like confirmation of what I already believed about myself. The future I once planned seemed fa
