I'm trapped. I'm trapped. I'm trapped.

The mantra played over and over again as I sat in the dark room, my arms wrapped tight around my knees, rocking back and forth in a rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat. The motion was the only thing keeping me sane—or maybe it was driving me further into madness. I couldn't tell anymore.

Glass shattered around me in jagged shards.  Each piece found its mark, tearing through my skin like tiny, vindictive teeth. I could feel the blood trickling down my arms and legs in warm rivulets, pooling beneath me on the cold floor, but I couldn't find it in myself to move. My muscles had turned to lead, my will to stone.

Not like it would do any good anyway. There was no door to escape through. No window to crawl out of. This was just a vast place of emptiness—a hollow void that stretched endlessly in every direction. This was a place of nothing, where hope came to die and memories turned to ash. This was a place for suffering, designed for it, built from the very bones of despair.

Oh God. 

The fluorescent light above my desk flickered for the third time in an hour, casting an annoying strobe effect across the stack of client proposals I was supposed to be reviewing. I rubbed my temples and glanced at the clock on my computer screen—5:30 PM. Just thirty more minutes until I could escape this beige-walled prison and pretend I had a life outside of junior-level advertising work.

My cubicle was barely big enough to fit my desk, chair, and the single wilted plant my roommate Sandy had bought me as a "workplace morale booster" six months ago. The pictures sitting on my desk of me and Sandy at that Spa retreat in Virginia last year—felt more like mockery at this point.

I'd been at Nexus Creative Group for three years now, and despite my marketing degree and what I thought were some pretty creative campaign ideas, I was still stuck writing ads for tire sales and grocery store flyers. Meanwhile, my college classmates were posting LinkedIn updates about their promotions and corner offices. Not that I was bitter or anything.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sandy. 

Sandy: Don’t forget we're out of milk. And wine. Especially wine. 

I smiled despite my mood. Sandy had a way of reading my mind, even from across town where she worked as an EMT. We'd been roommates since college graduation, and somewhere along the way, she'd become the sister I never knew I wanted. She was also the only person who could convince me to leave the house on weeknights.

Another text popped up. 

Sandy: According to Instagram Mandy is in town and at Three Cheers if you want to stop by for ONE drink. Emphasis on ONE. She’s inviting everyone from college to go

I sighed. Three Cheers Bar was exactly the kind of dive where you went to forget your problems, not solve them. But after staring at computer screens all day and getting my latest campaign idea shot down by my boss because it was "too creative" for our conservative client base, drowning my sorrows in their greasy burgers and cheap beer sounded almost appealing.

Me: Maybe…

I texted back, already knowing Sandy could read between the lines.

Sandy: Ash, You need to get out more. You’re turning into a hermit. 

Me: I’m not a hermit. I’m just…focused on my career. IF you want you can go hang out with her. 

Sandy: What Career? You write ads about discount toilet paper. Plus, I can’t hang tonight. I have to be at work at 5am

Ouch. But she wasn't wrong.

I gathered my things, said goodbye to the two other junior associates who were still hunched over their desks like prisoners serving life sentences, and headed for the parking garage. The November air bit at my cheeks as I walked to my car—a ten-year-old white Mustang that had seen better days but got me from point A to point B.

Thirty minutes later, I found myself pulling into Three Cheers  parking lot, telling myself I was only going in for a quick burger and maybe one beer. Just enough social interaction to prove to Sandy that I wasn't completely hopeless.

"Ashleigh!"

My name being shouted across the crowded bar made me roll my eyes before I plastered a smile on my face and turned toward the voice. My old college friend had her hand raised in the air, a half-empty beer bottle swinging from her fingers. I waved back, wanting  to turn around and sneak out the door to the comfort of my warm car, but she surged forward from her barstool, stumbling toward me through the maze of bodies and conversation.

Mandy looked exactly like she had in college—long brown hair, curves in all the right places, and the kind of confidence that came from never having to worry about money. Except now there was something desperate about her smile, something brittle around the edges that hadn't been there before.

"Ashleigh!" she shouted again, her arm swooping around my neck while she pushed her long brown hair over her shoulder. The last bit of beer in her bottle sloshed over the front of my white  blouse as she tipped forward, and the sharp smell of alcohol hit me like a wall.

I clenched my jaw and forced my smile wider. "Mandy. How have you been?" I ducked down, escaping her drunken clutch, then stepped back to steady her as she swayed. Her bloodshot green eyes narrowed on me with the intense focus only drunk people could manage.

"I've been ex-ex—" Her eyes narrowed even more, like she was trying to force the words into formation. "I've been good," she finally slurred. "Divorced." She held up her right hand, showing me her empty fingers like it was some kind of trophy. I suppressed a laugh as she pointedly looked at her hand, then swung her left hand forward, wiggling her fingers in my face. "But I got a healthy alimony package and the house in barbados!"

She grabbed my hands, yanking me toward her abandoned barstool. As she pushed me down onto the vacated seat, I noticed the chairs surrounding her were mostly empty. The other patrons had left a careful circle of space around her, eyeing me with barely concealed sympathy as I became her latest victim. Apparently no one else from college decided to show. 

"Remember our junior year when you helped me write that essay about marketing psychology?" she slurred, leaning heavily against the bar. "You were always so smart, Ash. So put-together. Look at you now—still wearing those boring work clothes, still being responsible and shit.”

I wasn't sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult.

"What about you?" I asked, genuinely curious despite the circumstances. "Last I heard, you'd married some rich guy and moved to a huge house in Miami."

Her face darkened. "Yeah, well, turns out my husband couldn’t handle all this" She gestured to herself before she signaled the bartender again. "Twenty-five years old and already divorced because I was too much woman for him."

I didn't know what to say to that. I'd never met her husband —they'd gotten together after college and married pretty quickly.

"Two Fireball shots!" she shouted at the bartender, smacking her hands on the sticky bar top hard enough to make empty bottles jump.

The bartender—a heavily tattooed girl with dark eyeliner and teased black hair that formed a halo around her head—narrowed her brown eyes at Mandy and pushed two shot glasses forward with deliberate slowness. "You taking responsibility for this one?" She pointed a long acrylic nail at Mandy like identifying a suspect. "She's been here since noon."

My gaze snapped to Mandy as she shrugged with careless confidence and threw back her shot without flinching. She pushed the other glass toward me across the wet bar top. It was eight o'clock at night. Seven hours straight of drowning her divorce in cheap alcohol and bad decisions.

I threw back the shot, feeling the burn slide down my throat, then wrapped my arms around Mandy's swaying frame. "Yes, I'll take responsibility for her."

One thing about Mandy—she'd always known how to party, even back in college when the rest of us worried about midterms and our futures. I remembered her dragging me to frat parties when I wanted to stay in and study, always pushing me out of my comfort zone. "Live a little, Ashleigh," she used to say. "There's more to life than getting good grades."

I'd come in tonight expecting their greasy burgers and one beer after a long day at work, maybe some peace to decompress. Instead, here I was throwing back shots like I didn't have to work tomorrow. "Remember when we used to talk about conquering the world?" Mandy asked, her words slurring together. "We were going to run an advertising company together. Look how well that turned out. I haven’t even touched my degree since I got it."

"You're still young," I said, though the words felt hollow. "You can still do whatever you want."

"Can I? Because it feels like everyone else figured out how to be successful while I was playing house with a man I married and barely knew." She gestured vaguely around the bar. "And you—you're still stuck in some dead-end job, aren't you? We're both failures, Ash. Might as well drink to it."

Her words hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. After a while, I lost count of the shots. The amber liquid started tasting like water, which was never a good sign. When I stood to find the bathroom, gripping the barstool for support, the walls spun in slow, nauseating circles. I stumbled through the crowd, bumping into chairs and muttering apologies, grateful when I finally found the bathroom and could lock myself in a stall. At least I managed to find the toilet and not pee next to it—small victories.

Two girls came in giggling, their voices echoing off the tiles as I stumbled out of the stall and made my way to the sink on unsteady legs. "Did you see the CEO of that new tech company, Cypher Tech?" one asked, waving a sparkly hand fan in front of her flushed face. "He's so hot. I think his name is Phillip Hamby."

"No, Patrick Henson," the other corrected, checking her lipstick in the mirror. "And he's like, twenty-five and already worth millions. Can you imagine?"

Suddenly the walls stopped spinning. The alcohol-induced fog lifted like someone had flipped a switch, and a memory invaded my vision with startling clarity—a bright yellow slide and a blonde-haired boy sitting cross-legged at the bottom, blocking my path with that infuriating grin, keeping me from getting off and going to class.

"You can't get down unless you give me a kiss," seven-year-old Patrick had declared, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

"That's stupid," I'd replied, but I was smiling despite myself. "Mrs. Wells is going to be mad if we're late."

"Then you better hurry up and kiss me."

I remembered the way he'd looked at me, like I was the most important person in his whole second-grade world. Even I would still push his head in the sand, getting grit under my fingernails. 

But still, he was the same boy I'd boldly claimed was my boyfriend to everyone on the playground, even though he'd never officially asked. He went along with it anyway, trying to kiss me on the slide every chance he got, those green eyes always sparkling with mischief when he'd corner me at the top of the playground steps and tell me elaborate stories about how we'd get married someday and live in a castle with a moat and a dragon.

"And we'll have three kids," he'd said with the certainty only children possessed. "Two boys and a girl, and they'll all have green eyes like me."

"That's not how it works," I'd informed him with seven-year-old authority. "Kids can have any color eyes."

"Not our kids," he'd said confidently. "Our kids will be special."

I exited the bathroom on steadier feet, the memory of Patrick lingering like smoke. Mandy had two more shots lined up and quickly passed one to me without looking up. I pulled my phone from my purse, the screen lighting up with notifications.

1:00 AM. How had five hours disappeared so completely? I scrolled through missed texts and calls from Sandy.

Sandy: Seriously, Where are you?

Sandy: Why is your location off? Call me! 

Sandy: Ashleigh, I’m getting worried. Text me back. 

Sandy: If you don’t answer in the next hour, I’m calling the police. 

Sandy: And your mother. 

That last threat made me laugh despite everything. Sandy knew exactly how to get my attention.

I sighed, pushing the phone back into my bag. "Mandy, it's one in the morning. Do you need a ride home?"

She shook her head vehemently and pushed the shot glass closer until it touched my fingers. "No way, girl. We're not done here. We're celebrating our spectacular failures."

I waved the bartender over and ordered two waters. "I think we need to call it a night, Mands." The bartender brought water in a styrofoam cup with a lid and straw, and I pushed it toward her.

She glared at the cup like it had personally offended her, then abruptly pushed it away and stood with dramatic flourish. She stomped across the bar, her stilettos clicking angrily against the sticky floor, and plopped down next to two men she'd obviously never met. They smiled at her with predatory interest that made my stomach clench.

I reached for her, but she smacked my hands away. "No, Ashleigh. If you want to go, then you go. Leave me here just like everyone else does.”

The pain in her voice was real, cutting through the alcohol and bravado. For a moment, I saw past the mess she'd become to the girl I'd known in college—the one who'd been so confident, so sure of her place in the world.

I looked at the men desperately for backup, but they just shrugged unfazed by the scene—just another night at the bar.

Twenty minutes of shouting, pleading, and one near-fight later, I was grateful to the bouncer and other patrons who helped me wrestle Mandy into my car. As soon as she was buckled in and the hot air from the heater blasting across her face, she passed out completely, her head lolling against the window.

The only problem was I had no idea where to take her.

I pulled up Facebook and found her brother easily enough—thank God for people who never change their profile pictures. I hit the call button in Messenger, pressing the phone to my ear while watching Mandy's unconscious form.

He answered after what felt like a million rings, his voice thick with sleep and irritation. "Ashleigh?"

"Hey Ryan, sorry for calling so late. I have Mandy with me and was wondering where to take her. She's completely passed out drunk."

He let out a long, disgruntled sigh that told me this wasn't his first call like this. "Which bar?"

I gave him our location and waited in the parking lot, engine running and heat blasting against the late-night chill. Fifteen minutes later, he rumbled up in his large black pickup, looking exactly like I remembered—tall, broad-shouldered, and perpetually annoyed with his sister's life choices.

He walked to my passenger side and scooped Mandy up like she weighed nothing, then unceremoniously dropped her into his back seat. She moaned softly but didn't wake, instead curling into herself like a child.

"Twenty-five years old and still acts like a reckless teenager," he grumbled, turning to appraise my wrinkled white blouse and work slacks. "Didn't you both go to school for marketing or advertising or some bullshit like that?"

 "Advertising."

He nodded, giving me another once-over from my sensible flats to my flat-ironed dark blonde hair now falling from its neat style. "Wish she could have turned out like you. She married some rich guy for his money, didn't take him long to catch her fucking some other guy. Now look at her." He jerked his thumb toward his truck where Mandy sprawled across the back seat.

I didn't know what to say to that brutal summary, so I simply replied, "Well, life happens. I should get going."

Without so much as a goodbye, he climbed into his truck and drove away, leaving me standing alone in the empty parking lot.

I got back into my car and started the drive home, my thoughts inevitably circling back to Patrick. Here I was, twenty-five and barely making ends meet in a junior advertising position, while he was already CEO of his own tech company. How had he managed to build something like that so fast? What had I been doing with my life while he was conquering the business world?

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside my modest two-bedroom house—passed down from my uncle, white picket fence, tiny front porch, flower boxes I never remembered to water. I felt lucky to own my own home, even if the circumstances were unconventional. Uncle Gordan had left it to me when he passed away my senior year of high school. The only stipulation before I could officially claim it was that I had to finish college with a degree in anything, and I somehow chose advertising. I'd gotten a roommate right out of college to help with bills, back when I thought I'd quickly climb the business ladder. Instead, I'd found a sister—not by blood, but by choice.

Sandy stood in the living room with her arms crossed, eyes shooting daggers. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she wore her old favorite pajamas—the ones with little tacos all over them that she'd bought right after we moved in and she had her first real break up. The fact that she was wearing them meant she'd been worried enough to stay up waiting, probably stress-eating and watching terrible reality TV.

"That doesn’t smell like one beer from here. IT smells like you drank the whole fucking bar," she said, anger evident in every syllable.

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew it would piss her off more. I could practically see the vein in her forehead throbbing. I loved her to death—we had the kind of unconditional friendship where we never expected much from each other—but I definitely knew how to push her buttons.

"Before you start lecturing me," I said, holding up a hand, "I was helping Mandy. She was completely wasted and needed—"

"Ashleigh, I've been texting you for hours. HOURS. I was about to call your mother, then the police, then your mother again because she would have been more terrifying than the police."

She had a point. My mother could strike fear into the hearts of Navy SEALs when she was worried about me.

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "I should have texted back. Mandy was drowning her divorce in liquor, and I couldn't just leave her there."

Sandy's expression softened slightly. "I know you were trying to help. I just—" She paused, running a hand through her hair. "I worry about you, okay? You work all day at that soul-sucking job, come home exhausted, and the only time you go out is to rescue drunk friends or buy groceries. When's the last time you did something just for you?"

The question hit harder than I expected. When was the last time I'd done something just for me? I couldn't remember.

"I'm just glad you're not dead in a ditch somewhere," she said, her voice softening before she turned and headed toward her room. "But next time, for the love of all that's holy, answer your damn phone."

"I will," I called after her, but she'd already disappeared into her room.

A few seconds later, Spanish music filled the space—loud, dramatic ballads that were her way of blocking me out when she was too tired to fight but still wanted me to know she was annoyed. I recognized the telltale signs of a full Sandy Shutdown.

I sighed and headed to my room, shucking off my clothes and throwing them in the hamper before stumbling to the bathroom. The hot shower felt like salvation, washing away the stale bar air, sticky residue of spilled drinks, and lingering cigarette smell. I let the water run until the bathroom was thick with steam and I was completely clean.

I threw on an oversized t-shirt and crawled into bed, my damp hair soaking the pillow. The house had gone quiet—Sandy's music had finally stopped, whether from her falling asleep or giving up on making a point. I should have felt tired, should have been ready to pass out after the long night, but my mind was buzzing.

I reached for my phone again, the screen casting blue light in the darkness, and pulled up Facebook. My fingers hesitated before I typed "Patrick Henson" in the search bar.

He was the first name to pop up, and even though he was older and more mature-looking now, I could still see traces of that mischievous little boy in his profile picture. The same green eyes, the same confident smile—just sharper now, more refined. More successful.

His profile was mostly private, but I could see enough to piece together a life that seemed like it belonged in a magazine. Photos from what looked like expensive business trips, him shaking hands with important-looking people in suits, posing next to sleek cars and in front of modern office buildings with "Cypher Tech" gleaming in chrome letters.

There was one photo from what appeared to be a company party—Patrick in a perfectly tailored suit, surrounded by employees who all looked young, attractive, and successful. The kind of people who probably went to work each day excited about their projects, who felt like they were changing the world instead of writing ads about discounted supplies or other useless nonsense. I scrolled further, finding a photo from a few months ago where he was giving some kind of presentation. The caption read: "Excited to announce Cypher Tech's latest innovation in cloud security. When you love what you do, work doesn't feel like work."

When you love what you do, work doesn't feel like work.

I thought about my beige cubicle, my flickering fluorescent light, my stack of uninspiring client proposals. When was the last time I'd felt excited about anything related to my job? When was the last time I'd felt excited about anything at all?

There were other photos too—Patrick at charity galas, Patrick receiving some kind of young entrepreneur award, Patrick looking confident and accomplished in every single image. This was the boy who used to eat paste in art class and once cried because he stepped on a lady bug. 

I stared at the screen for a long time, my thumb hovering over his name. Part of me wanted to send a message—something casual like "Hey, heard you were doing good…” but then how would I even follow up about the disappointing life I've led? 

I scrolled through more photos, each one a reminder of how different our paths had become. Here was someone who'd taken every opportunity and turned it into something bigger, while I felt like I was still waiting for my real life to begin.

Why did those girls at the bar have to mention him? I was happy now—at least I thought I was. I had a home, a job, a best friend who cared enough to threaten to call my mother when I didn't text back. That was more than a lot of people had.

But sitting here in the dark, looking at the life he'd apparently built, I couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere along the way, I'd taken a wrong turn. That maybe I'd been so focused on being responsible and practical that I'd forgotten how to dream about something bigger.

The boy who'd promised me castles and adventures had apparently found a way to build them for real. And I was still sitting on the playground, wondering what might have been.