STEPHANIE
....

Amber and I are curled up on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn between us, and the TV screen is lit up with some Hallmark movie where the small-town baker falls for the big-city businessman.

It’s the usual cliché—snow-covered streets, twinkling lights, and overly sentimental dialogue that makes me want to scream.

“You know, if he just said, ‘Hey, I’m actually a billionaire,’ in the first five minutes, this whole plot would fall apart,” I say, popping a kernel into my mouth.

Amber doesn’t even look at me. “Shut up, Steph. This is the best part.”

I roll my eyes, but I keep quiet for about thirty seconds before I can’t help myself.

“Seriously, though, why is she baking gingerbread cookies in a strapless dress? Who does that?”

Amber sighs dramatically and pauses the movie. “Do you want to watch something else, or do you want to sit here and ruin my night?”

“I’m just saying, it’s unrealistic. No one actually looks that good while baking,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

Amber huffs. “Yeah, well, maybe you should take notes. A little glam wouldn’t kill you.”

“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan. “You’re hilarious.”

She presses play again, and I sink back into the couch, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something else about the movie.

But it’s no use—my mind has already wandered off. The cheesy dialogue and snow-filled streets blur into the background as my thoughts zero in on Melody.

That girl has been stuck in my head all evening, like a song you don’t even like but can’t stop humming. Every snarky comment, every dismissive glance, every eye-roll—it’s like she’s perfected the art of making me feel insignificant without even trying.

And the worst part? I can’t shake it off. No matter how much I tell myself she’s just another difficult client, she’s lodged in my brain, poking at every last nerve.

I cross my arms over my chest, frowning at the screen. It’s not like I want to think about her.

I’d rather be analyzing why the small-town baker is wearing heels in a snowstorm or predicting the next predictable twist in this Hallmark romance.

But Melody has this way of invading my thoughts, pulling my attention away from everything else and making me question why I even took this fuckin job in the first place.

After a few minutes, I can’t keep it in anymore.

“Amber, I swear, that girl is the most spoiled, self-centered person I’ve ever met.”

Amber glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “Melody? Already?”

“Yes, Melody,” I snap. “She’s impossible. She doesn’t listen, she doesn’t care, and she acts like this whole recovery thing is beneath her. It’s like she expects me to wave a magic wand and fix her knee without her having to lift a finger.”

Amber snorts. “Sounds like someone’s got her hands full.”

“You have no idea,” I groan, leaning my head back against the couch. “If it weren’t for the money, I wouldn’t even bother going back there. She makes me feel so… so  fucking small. Like I don’t know what I’m doing, even though I went to school for this.”

Amber pauses the movie again, turning to face me.

“Steph, you’re good at what you do. You’ve told me a hundred times how much you love helping people recover. Don’t let one bratty girl make you doubt yourself.”

“I’m not doubting myself,” I say quickly. “I’m just… annoyed. She’s so entitled. It’s like she’s never had to work for anything in her life.”

Amber shrugs. “Probably hasn’t. But that’s not your problem. Your problem is making sure you get that paycheck so you can finally move out of this cramped little apartment.”

I look around the living room—our shared space with its secondhand furniture and overflowing shelves. It’s cozy, sure, but it’s not mine.

“You’re right,” I admit with a sigh.

I love my sister and living with her is so much fun but I need my own place. I need space. I need… independence.

Amber smiles knowingly. “I get it. And you’ll get there. Just stick it out. The money will be worth it.”

I nod, more to myself than to her. Amber’s right. I love her, but I love my independence more. And if dealing with Melody for a few weeks --or months if I don't get fired --is the price I have to pay to get it, then so be it.

The movie ends with the predictable kiss in the snow, and Amber looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Wasn’t that just perfect?” she asks, sniffling.

“Sure,” I reply, grabbing the empty popcorn bowl and heading to the kitchen. “Perfectly ridiculous.”

Amber throws a pillow at me as I walk away, and I laugh, feeling a little more relieved than I did earlier.

I head to my room and lock the door  with a satisfying click, before flicking on the light. My room isn’t huge, but it's my little slice of peace.

The double bed takes up most of the space, dressed in white sheets with a soft gray throw blanket at the foot. It’s simple but cozy, with a stack of pillows that I keep rearranging because I can never decide what feels right.

The nightstand is crammed with thick textbooks with dry titles like Musculoskeletal Anatomy and Therapeutic Techniques. There’s also a novel wedged in the pile.

On the other side, a small desk is cluttered with notebooks, a laptop, and a half-empty coffee cup that I keep forgetting to take to the sink.

Above the desk is a pin board where I’ve tacked up random things: motivational quotes, a photo of Amber and me from our last beach trip, and some sticky notes with reminders I’ve already missed.

By the window, there’s a yoga mat rolled up neatly in the corner, a small nod to the one thing that keeps me sane.

My sneakers are kicked off near the closet door, and a potted plant sits on the windowsill—a tiny splash of green in the otherwise neutral room. I’ve somehow kept it alive, and I’m irrationally proud of that.

I change into my favorite pink tank top. It’s soft and a little worn, but it’s comfortable—perfect for what I’m about to do.

I set up my phone on the small tripod by my desk, adjusting the angle until it’s just right. Then I grab the small mic I use for these videos, clipping it to my top.

I hit record, and for a moment, I just sit still.

“Hey, guys,” I whisper softly, my voice calm and soothing. “It’s been a long day, but I’ve got a story for you.”

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment as I collect my thoughts.

“So, today I met someone… interesting. She’s my new client. Let’s just say, she’s not exactly thrilled about the process.”

I laugh lightly, the sound almost a whisper. “She’s tough, though. Stubborn. It’s going to be a challenge, but I think we’ll get there. Eventually.”

I drift into another story about the stray little kittens I found by the dumpster. The hot dude who mixed up my coffee order and every other little detail about my week so far.

As I talk, my voice stays soft and even, the way my followers like it. My ASMR channel is my escape, my little secret. Over a million people tune in to hear me tell these stories, but none of them know who I am. They’ve never seen my face, and I plan to keep it that way.

It’s not about fame or recognition. It’s about connection. About sharing a piece of myself in a way that feels safe.

“Anyway,” I continue, “that’s all for tonight. Thanks for listening, and as always, take care of yourselves.”

I end the recording and sit back, a small smile on my lips. For a moment, the stress of the day melts away, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of doing something I love.

I upload the video, setting it to go live in an hour, and then crawl into bed.

My mind drifts back to that little brat.

Melody can get under my skin all she wants but I’m not giving up.