Ellie stood in the middle of her kitchen, trying to remember why she walked in. Her brain was fog. Her heart was heavy. Her socks were wet, she didn't even want to know why.
There were dishes in the sink from three days ago. The garbage smelled. A plant by the window had officially entered hospice care. Her cat meowed like a tiny judgmental therapist and darted under the couch when she moved too quickly.
She opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened it again.
Empty except for mustard, a questionable yogurt cup, and the half-finished wine bottle she kept forgetting she couldn't afford to finish.
She grabbed the wine anyway.
Across the room, her laptop glowed with an unfinished scheduling spreadsheet. Her work chat pinged every few minutes her manager asking why her shift notes hadn't been uploaded yet. Again.
Today alone:
A customer screamed at her over a mislabeled cold brew.
Her coworker forgot to show up for the closing shift, leaving her to clean everything solo.
She accidentally sent a voice memo to her ex-crush instead of her best friend. It was… not flattering.
Her mom called to ask if she "still believed this whole barista thing was temporary."
Ellie didn't answer. She just hung up and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
Tired eyes. Tired face. Tired soul.
She sat on the couch and curled into a ball under the unfolded laundry. Her phone rested on the armrest like a lifeline she wasn't ready to grab yet.
The silence was too loud.
Tears were already waiting behind her eyes, impatient.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve and reached for the remote — then stopped as her phone buzzed.
1 New Message: Max
A beat of hesitation.
Then she opened it.
Max:
How's the queen of emotional breakdowns and espresso shots?
Her lips twitched. Not a smile. But something like it.
Ellie:
Dethroned. In exile. Eating dumplings from a paper towel.
Max:
That's the saddest royal banquet I've ever heard of.
Please tell me you at least have a plastic fork.
Ellie:
Chopsticks. The ones from that sushi place we hate.
I'm not proud.
She sniffed, half laughing.
Max:
You're doing amazing, your highness.
Ellie:
I'm a disaster, Max.
Like a rom-com extra who wandered into a drama and forgot her lines.
Max:
That's why you're my favorite.
Flawed. Chaotic.
Relatable.
Ellie:
I stepped in cat pee today and cried at a dish soap ad.
Max:
A true heroine.
Ellie:
Why does this feel like the best part of my day?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Max:
Because it is.
Because sometimes strangers with good timing are better than people who know too much and still get it wrong.
Ellie swallowed the lump in her throat.
And just like that, in the middle of the mess, she felt a little less alone.