The bus sighed to a stop in front of the cracked sidewalk, exhaling heat and exhaust like it resented every second of its existence. June stepped on without a word, tapping her transit card and sliding into the seat near the back, the one with a scratched window and broken USB port.
It was 6:13 a.m.
The bus was mostly empty. Two high schoolers in uniforms sat near the front, tapping away at their phones. A man in a suit with a permanent frown checked his watch obsessively like he wanted to fight time itself. Behind him, an older woman dozed, head bobbing with every pothole the bus hit.
And June. Silent. Motionless. Her work uniform still clung to her skin, the faint scent of fryer oil and chemical cleaner embedded in the fabric like memory.
Outside the window, the city blurred past in bleached tones. Buildings leaned like they were tired. A neon sign buzzed against the dawn sky. A group of schoolchildren crossed the street, chasing each other, laughing too loud for the hour.
One of the kids had pigtails. She slipped on the wet pavement and laughed harder as she got up.
June watched, blank-faced.
That used to feel like something. Falling. Getting up. Laughing at yourself.
Now it just felt far away. Like watching an old sitcom through a dirty window.
Two stops later, a couple boarded, early twenties, probably students, arms linked. The boy kissed the girl's forehead. She beamed like he'd given her gold.
They sat across from June.
The girl glanced her way, then turned back to her boyfriend, whispering something that made them both laugh. Not cruelly. Just... privately. Like June didn't exist.
She didn't mind. Not really. You had to be in the world for it to hurt you.
The bus wheezed on. The sky went from gray to a muted blue, the color of washed-out dreams.
June's apartment sat above a discount laundromat that reeked of detergent and mildew. The stairs creaked under her weight as she climbed to the fourth floor. The lights in the hallway flickered. No one ever fixed them. No one ever complained.
Her door stuck slightly as she opened it. Inside, nothing had changed.
One mattress on the floor. One lamp. One hotplate. A cracked mirror. A stack of dishes in the sink that never seemed to get higher or lower.
The same pile of clean clothes folded in the same spot on the shelf. The same unopened mail stacked by the door, most of it junk or reminders that the world still technically knew she was alive.
She dropped her bag by the door and stood in the middle of the room.
Listened.
Nothing. No humming fridge. No neighbors arguing. No cars outside.
Just her and the silence.
She turned on the lamp. Yellow light spilled over the mattress and the patchy carpet.
Then she lay down, arms spread, and stared at the ceiling.
There were cracks up there, little hairline fractures that spidered across the plaster like roads to nowhere. She used to imagine them as maps, tracing them with her eyes, pretending they led to better places. Now they just reminded her that everything breaks eventually.
Her body ached. Not in any specific way, just a deep, slow burn in her bones. The kind that came from existing too long without purpose.
Some people say depression feels like drowning. But it wasn't like that for June.
She wasn't thrashing or gasping for air. She wasn't screaming underwater.
She was just... still.
Like she'd been underwater so long she forgot what breathing felt like. Forgotten it mattered.
Her phone buzzed once.
An email from a job site... "Ready to level up your career?"
She laughed, a short, dry breath through her nose.
Then she opened the email and hit unsubscribe.
She sat up, moved to the desk shoved in the corner. It still had the old receipt with her plan scribbled on it. Neat, bullet-pointed, printed on the back of an oil-stained purchase from the Twenty4.
1. Rope (buy from warehouse on 3rd)
2. Chair (abandoned office down by rail line)
3. Place: warehouse near Canal Street
4. Date: Thursday. After shift. No one around.
Simple. Clean. Quiet.
She'd picked the warehouse weeks ago. Abandoned. Dusty. No security. One of those places no one cared about, perfect for disappearing.
She'd already tested the lock last week. Just a rusty chain and a broken latch. Easy to slide in after dark.
The rope was in the closet. Still coiled. Still unused.
The chair was already stashed in the warehouse. No note. No farewell. Just her, the rope, and gravity.
She opened the closet. Pulled out the rope.
Held it in both hands.
It wasn't heavy. Not like she expected. Just coarse. It had that sharp, earthy smell, like old barns and forgotten things.
She ran a finger over it.
Then, without drama, she placed it back.
She walked to the window and opened it a crack. Cold air spilled in, brushing her skin with icy fingers.
She liked that.
At least it felt like something.
She walked back to the mattress, lay down again, arms folded behind her head.
This was the part no one ever talked about.
The calm.
The stillness before.
No tears. No dramatic last-minute phone calls. No shaking hands.
Just a decision already made. A plan already in motion.
She wasn't scared. She didn't feel brave. She didn't feel anything.
She'd written a note once. Then deleted it.
No one would read it anyway.
Her phone had four contacts. One was work. One was the doctor's office. One was a classmate from college she hadn't spoken to in four years. One was her mother's old number, now out of service.
She looked at the ceiling again.
One crack curved like a smile. She imagined it laughing at her.
She smiled back.
"I'm not scared. Just... tired."