PART 2 — “See You at 7:00 AM” Wasn’t the Ending. It Was the Trapdoor.
At 6:59 AM, my phone alarm didn’t sound like a reminder anymore.
It sounded like a dare.
I stood in my kitchen holding Barnaby’s leash like it was a lifeline, staring at the door, waiting for the familiar wave of dread—the one that always hits right before you remember you’re still you.
But the dread didn’t come first.
First came Barnaby, tail thumping, mouth open in that old-dog grin like he’d already forgiven me for Tuesday night.
Then came the thought that surprised me so hard I almost laughed:
Someone is expecting me.
Not my clients. Not the algorithm. Not the invisible world behind a screen.
A cranky old veteran next door who would absolutely bang on my door if I was late.
I stepped into the hallway and my apartment building smelled like always—stale carpet and someone’s microwaved regret.
Barnaby trotted beside me like a little parade, nails clicking, head high, leading me toward Apartment 1B like we had somewhere important to be.
Because we did.
Mr. Miller was already on his porch with two mugs and that folding chair that looked like it had survived a war of its own.
He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile.
He just looked at his watch with theatrical disappointment.
“You’re three seconds early,” he said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I sat down anyway.
Coffee steam rose into the cold morning air, and for a few minutes we did nothing but drink it. No motivational speech. No advice. No “how are you really doing?” that felt like a trap.
Just the sound of the street waking up. A garbage truck groaning. A distant dog barking. Barnaby sighing so deeply it sounded like he was releasing secrets.
You know what’s weird?
When you’re depressed, quiet feels like proof you don’t matter.
But when you’re sitting next to another human being who is also quiet, it feels like permission.
Day two, I told him about my work.
I used the phrase “multiple income streams,” like I was auditioning for a life I didn’t have.
Miller made a face like he’d bitten into something sour.
“You got three jobs,” he said. “And not one of them knows your name.”
“It’s freelancing,” I corrected automatically, like I was defending my religion.
“That’s a fancy word for ‘replaceable,’” he said. “And before you get mad, I’m not judging you. I’m judging the deal.”
He tapped the mug with his thick finger.
“You kids were sold a story. Be flexible. Be independent. Don’t rely on anyone. Hustle. Brand yourself. Smile through it.”
He looked at me, eyes sharp as broken glass.
“And the second you start drowning, you feel ashamed. Because you think drowning means you failed.”
I stared into my coffee like it could argue back for me.
The truth was, I wanted him to be wrong.
Because if he was right, then my exhaustion wasn’t a personal flaw.
It was a symptom.
And symptoms don’t get fixed by “trying harder.”
On day four, I almost didn’t go.
Not because I was late.
Because there was an envelope on my doormat.
No fancy logo. No dramatic red stamp.
Just plain paper, plain threat.
NOTICE OF NONPAYMENT.
My vision tunneled. My mouth went dry.
I read it twice, then a third time, as if the words might soften if I stared long enough.
It didn’t say “we understand.”
It didn’t say “call us.”
It said what all those letters say in every city, in every decade, in every building where people pretend they’re not one paycheck away from panic:
PAY BY FRIDAY OR VACATE.
Friday.
Two days.
My hands started shaking so hard the paper fluttered like it was laughing at me.
The Tuesday-night thought crept back in, quiet and oily.
See? It doesn’t matter if you showed up at 7:00 AM. You’re still losing.
Barnaby pressed his nose to my knee, whining.
I’m not proud of what I did next.
I sat on the floor with that notice in my lap and I stared at the wall like it was a door I could walk through.
I don’t even remember how long I sat there.
Long enough for the sun to change angles.
Long enough for Barnaby to give up and lie down, his body touching mine like a warm anchor.
Then—three sharp knocks.
Not polite. Not neighborly.
Military-grade knocking.
I jolted.
“Jason,” Miller’s voice came through the door. “Open up.”
I didn’t move.
The knocking came again, harder.
“Open the door before I kick it and give the building something to actually complain about.”
My hand found the lock like it belonged to someone else.
When I opened the door, Miller didn’t step inside.
He didn’t ask permission.
He just looked at me—at my face, my eyes, the paper on the floor—and his jaw tightened.
“Show me,” he said.
I handed him the notice like it was contagious.
He read it once.
Then he did something that made my stomach flip.
He laughed.
Not a mean laugh.
A tired laugh. The kind people laugh when they recognize something that’s been happening forever but still feels personal when it happens to you.
“They always write it like you’re a bad person,” he muttered. “Like you didn’t pay because you’re out there buying yachts.”
“I’m trying,” I said, and my voice cracked on the word like it was made of glass.
Miller looked up.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can tell.”
Then he crouched down—slowly, hip complaining—and scratched Barnaby behind the ears.
“You wanna know what’s gonna make this worse?” he asked, still petting the dog.
“What?”
“Doing it alone.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“You can’t fix rent with coffee,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “But you can fix stupid choices with coffee. And panic makes people do stupid things.”
He stood up again with a grunt.
“Put on shoes. Bring the letter. Bring the dog.”
“Where are we going?”
He pointed down the hallway like it was obvious.
“To knock on a door,” he said. “Since you love those so much.”
We walked to the Management Office at the end of the building.
Barnaby sat at my heel like a service animal, except his only training was love.
Behind the desk was a woman about my age with a tight bun and tired eyes. Her name tag said KNOX.
She looked up, saw Miller, and her face did that professional thing—pleasant on the outside, braced on the inside.
“Mr. Miller,” she said. “How can I help you?”
Miller slid the notice onto the counter like he was placing evidence in a trial.
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