The Cross Family

I Will Not Give Up

Mya sat at the small table in her apartment, the chipped mug of coffee cooling beside her untouched. Her fingers toyed with the corner of yet another application, the paper softening at the edges from being folded and unfolded too many times. The stack was growing—half a dozen here, another pile on the counter, more tucked into her tote bag. She had filled out forms for waitressing jobs, retail shops, even a dry cleaner down the block.

She’d walked to each place, smiled politely, handed over her résumé that had little on it besides “volunteer work” and a few freelance projects. Each time, the manager had promised to “get back to her.” And each time, the phone stayed silent.

It had been weeks now. Her savings—what little she had kept separate before the marriage—was gone. What she hadn’t spent on rent had gone to groceries, bus fare, and laundry. She had stretched every dollar until it tore. Now, the cupboards held only rice, a few cans of soup, and the stale heel of bread she had been pretending still tasted fine.

The weight of it all pressed against her chest. Her stomach twisted with nerves, not just from hunger but from the gnawing dread that tomorrow might be the day she truly had nothing left.

She pushed the stack of applications aside and rubbed at her temples. The room felt smaller than ever, the walls pressing in, the ceiling low. Outside, the street buzzed with life: horns, voices, the bakery bell chiming. The world moved on, uncaring, while she sat paralyzed by fear of what came next.

When the knock came at the door, she jolted so hard her knee hit the underside of the table. The coffee sloshed in its mug, dark lines spilling across the paper.

She froze, heart thudding.

The knock came again—steady, firm, not unkind.

“Mya?”

It was Pike, the building manager.

She swallowed hard. Of course it was him. Rent was due last week. She had avoided the front office, avoided his eyes whenever they crossed paths in the stairwell. But she knew this moment would come.

She stood, smoothed the wrinkles from her blouse, and opened the door. Pike stood there, his hands in the pockets of his work jacket, his face patient but serious.

Before he could speak, she blurted, “I know.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “Pike, I know I owe for the rest of the month, but I really have nothing to give you right now.” She gripped the doorknob tighter, her knuckles white. “I can leave. I’ll pack my things now.”

Pike studied her for a long moment. He was a man of few words, someone who preferred fixing leaky faucets and repainting stairwells to long conversations. But now he sighed and leaned one shoulder against the frame.

“You’re not leaving,” he said.

Mya blinked. “I… I can’t pay—”

“I know,” Pike interrupted gently. “But you’re not leaving. You’ll pay me back once you’re on your feet.”

Her throat tightened. “Pike, that’s—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, holding up a hand. “I need you to do something in return. Not money. Initiative.”

Her brows furrowed. “Initiative?”

“You’ve been sitting in here waiting for someone to call you back. That’s not enough.” His gaze was steady, firm but not cruel. “You want to make this work, you’ve got to show up every single day until someone gives you a shot. Not once a week, not once in a while. Every day.”

Mya’s lips parted, then closed again. She nodded slowly. “Every day.”

“That’s right.” Pike’s voice softened. “I’ve seen people crash in this city, Mya. Some give up before they even start. You’re not one of those people. You’ve got grit. But grit doesn’t matter if you don’t use it.”

Her eyes stung, and she looked away quickly, blinking hard. “I’ll try.”

“No.” Pike shook his head. “Not try. Do.”

She managed a small, wry smile. “Do.”

He pushed away from the doorframe, his tone turning brisk again. “Good. I’ll check in on you next week. I expect to hear about at least a couple interviews.”

“Yes, sir,” she said automatically, her voice faint but sincere.

Pike gave her a short nod and turned to go. He paused halfway down the hall. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you belong in the headlines they’ve been running. I think you’ve got more in you than that.”

Her breath caught. “Thank you.”

He gave her one last look, unreadable but kind, and disappeared down the stairs.

Mya closed the door and leaned against it, her whole body trembling. Relief mixed with shame in her chest. Pike was giving her grace—but grace wasn’t endless. She couldn’t rely on his patience forever.

She sank onto the futon, her knees drawn up to her chest. The silence of the apartment pressed in, heavier than before. Her eyes landed on the stack of applications again, the ink already blurring where coffee had spilled.

She pressed her hands over her face. What if she never got a call back? What if she wasn’t capable of surviving outside Damon’s shadow? What if Lorraine had been right all along—that she was ornamental, harmless, nothing?

Her chest ached with the weight of it.

She reached for her journal on the nightstand. The cover was worn, the pages dog-eared, but it was the one place she could be honest without consequence. She flipped past the earlier entries—days filled with fear, longing, and self-recrimination—and found a blank page.

The pen felt heavy in her hand. For a long moment she stared at the empty paper, wondering if she had any words left at all.

Finally, she wrote:

It is still better than living under a cold roof with no love.

The words sat stark against the page, but once they were down, something in her loosened.

She kept writing, her hand steadier now:

Better to be broke and uncertain than wealthy and invisible. Better to fight for scraps on my own than be handed gold by someone who sneers at me. Better to be here, in this small room, than in that mansion where laughter was a weapon.

Tears blurred her vision, but she let them fall. They splashed against the paper, smearing ink, but she didn’t care.

She closed the journal gently and pressed it against her chest, her heartbeat strong beneath it.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring—more rejections, more hunger, maybe another humiliating headline. But she knew this: she had survived worse. She had survived Damon’s disdain, Lorraine’s cruelty, Caroline’s mockery, Sloane’s triumph. She had survived being erased.

Now, all she had to do was survive herself—her doubt, her fear, her exhaustion.

She whispered aloud, her voice breaking but firm: “I will not give up.”

The words didn’t echo in the tiny room. They didn’t need to. They were hers alone.