Page 16 of Shy Girl

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The following morning,I’m jolted awake by a series of knocks so forceful they feel personal, like the sound’s been weaponized, calibrated to strike nerves I didn’t even know I had. It ricochets through my body, cracking open some tender part of my chest where panic lives. My heart spikes, and my thoughts scatter like marbles on a hardwood floor, chaotic, impossible to pin down.

I sit up too fast, the room tilting for a moment before settling into place. My body feels stiff and useless, like the dissonance of the sound has sunk into my joints. I drag myself to the door, my fingers wrapping around the handle. The motion is slow, every second dragging with the weight of hesitation. I open it just a crack, peering through the narrow gap like I’m afraid of what might be on the other side.

There’s no one there. Just a piece of paper slapped against the door, tilted at an angle like it’s mocking me. The corners are curling

MIA BALLARD57

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slightly, the tape barely holding it in place. I pull it off with too much care, smoothing the edges instinctively, like that’ll somehow soften what I know is coming.

The words hit me in bold, unrelenting red:

NOTICE: FIVE DAYS TO PAY RENT OR QUIT.

It lands in my chest like a brick, and it sticks there, heavy and immovable. I exhale sharply, the sound more habit than release,

and mutter, “Damn it.” The words evaporate as soon as they leave my mouth, as weightless as I feel right now.

I walk to the couch, drop onto it like the cushions might swallow me whole, and unlock my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, indecisive, before I open the app and find Nathan’s thread. It’s the only tether I have to him—a string of messages that feel like both a lifeline and a trap. What I want is his number, something real and solid that doesn’t exist in the cloud, but all I have is this, a digital breadcrumb trail leading back to nothing.

My fingers hover, then move quickly:

Hey, are you able to meet up tonight? I need your help bad. Xo.

I add my number to the bottom of the message, my thumb poised over the send button like I’m holding my breath. When I finally press it, the action feels irreversible, a decision sealed in the space between one second and the next. I toss the phone onto the couch like it’s a grenade, like putting distance between me and that message will soften whatever’s coming.

The silence that follows is oppressive, the kind that swallows the room whole. I wait, the seconds dragging by in relentless cruelty. I pace, my steps a metronome marking the passage of time, the rhythm steady but my thoughts anything but. The phone rings

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SHY GIRL58

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suddenly, cutting through the quiet with a sharpness that makes me flinch.

I grab it from the cushions, my pulse hammering as I glance at the screen:

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

I answer, my voice shaky despite myself. “Hello?”

“It’s Nathan,” he says, his voice so clean and crisp it feels like he’s standing next to me, close enough to touch.

“Oh. Hi,” I stammer, pacing again, my movements suddenly jerky and uneven. “I wasn’t expecting you to call so quickly.”

“Well,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice, low and familiar, like it’s something he’s giving me for free. “You did say you needed my help. What’s going on?”

I glance around the room, my eyes landing on a smudge on the wall that looks like a tiny ghost of a mistake I can’t fix. “I’d rather talk about it in person,” I say, my voice steadying, grounding itself in the lie. “Are you free tonight?”

The pause stretches out, taut and unbearable, like he’s letting the silence do the talking for him. I count the seconds, each one pressing against me like a weight. Just when I’m about to fill the space with something—anything—he answers, and I explode.

“Yeah. I’m free tonight.”

NINE

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