A Flicker in the Fog

Celeste sat on the worn couch in the corner of her apartment, arms wrapped around her knees, the flickering light from a dying bulb casting long shadows on the walls. The silence felt heavier now. Not painful, not comforting—just… vast. Like she was alone in the center of a tunnel, with no end and no echo. Her head still throbbed dully from the blackout, and the back of her neck felt clammy from dried sweat.

She stared at the small clock on her wall. 5:47 a.m. She hadn't even realized she'd been awake most of the night. Her mouth tasted like metal. Her limbs felt numb.

Maya, still half-asleep, shuffled out from the corner where she'd spent the night on a lumpy mattress Celeste had pulled out for her.

"You're awake," she murmured, rubbing at her eyes.

Celeste didn't reply right away. Her voice was stuck somewhere between her chest and throat.

Maya came closer, dropping down beside her. Her voice was soft, but with the weight of steel underneath.

"You scared the hell out of me yesterday."

Celeste gave her a sideways glance, offering the smallest, hollow smile. "I scared myself too."

They sat in silence. Celeste's fingers tugged on a loose thread in her pajama sleeve. The quiet became unbearable, and finally, she spoke.

"I worked so hard on that project. I thought if I just… put in more effort, took more initiative, learned what others didn't know… they'd finally see me as more than just another temp."

Maya's hand found hers, grounding her.

"And they fired you for it?"

Celeste nodded. Her eyes burned, but no tears came this time. "They said I overstepped. That I didn't 'follow the chain.' That the company 'appreciated passion but valued protocol more.'"

Her laugh was bitter. "I was giving up lunch breaks, staying late, working weekends. And now… nothing."

Maya sighed. "They didn't deserve you. None of them did."

Celeste looked at her friend. "It's not about them. It's about… me. I feel like I keep doing everything right, and life keeps telling me I'm wrong."

Maya stood, brushing off imaginary dust from her joggers. She walked to the kitchen counter, rummaged through a bag, and pulled out a flyer. She held it out to Celeste.

"Interview. This Friday. My company—Blackridge Global."

Celeste blinked. "You want me to… what?"

"Finance division. We need someone. The role's open. You qualify. Hell, you're overqualified. I already dropped your name. They know you're brilliant. All you need to do is show up."

Celeste hesitated. The name Blackridge wasn't unfamiliar. It was the kind of company you saw in headlines, associated with success, ruthlessness, and impossible standards. Her throat tightened.

"That place won't want someone like me, Maya. I live in a shoebox, my last job fired me for being too eager, and my anxiety is practically a roommate at this point."

Maya crossed her arms, her expression sharpening.

"That place needs someone like you. And don't you dare talk about yourself like you're a lost cause. You've fought harder than anyone I know just to stay standing. You think they won't see that kind of resilience?"

Celeste turned the flyer over in her hands, scanning the logo. It felt too big. Too far.

"Even if I try… what if I fail again? What if it's worse this time?"

Maya knelt in front of her, both hands on Celeste's knees.

"Then I'll be here to pick you back up. Again and again. Until you start seeing yourself the way I see you."

Celeste looked down, overwhelmed.

The clock ticked. The weight in her chest didn't lift, but it shifted. Became something new. Not lighter, not gone. Just… different.

Hope, maybe.

She took a shaky breath and nodded.

"Okay. I'll go."

Maya grinned. "That's my girl."

Celeste didn't smile. But for the first time in days, her eyes didn't feel so heavy. And somewhere beneath the layers of exhaustion, bitterness, and ache… a spark dared to glow.

It wasn't fire.

But it was something.

The door had barely closed behind Maya when silence wrapped itself tightly around Celeste once more. It wasn't heavy like before—not quite suffocating—but it was there, sitting with her in the half-lit room that still smelled faintly of cheap instant coffee and Maya's citrus perfume.

She sat on the edge of her bed for a while, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Her eyes traced the peeling wallpaper, the dull shadows on the ceiling, the quiet ticking of the broken clock that always lagged a few minutes behind reality. That was her life in a metaphor, wasn't it? Always just a bit behind. Always trying to catch up.

Celeste let her forehead rest against her knees.

The ache in her chest hadn't gone away. Not fully. The exhaustion clung to her bones like wet clothes. Her mother's voice echoed in her head, the entitlement in it, the complete disregard for her situation. The world saw her as a brilliant mind, top of her class, a bright spark in the world of finance—but to the one woman who should've been proud of her, she was nothing more than a bank.

She shut her eyes tightly.

"Don't go down that road," she whispered to herself. "Not again."

But her mind wouldn't stop.

She thought about the job she'd lost. The one she worked so hard at even though it barely paid her enough for rent and food. She'd taken on extra projects, done unpaid tasks just to learn, to expand her skills, to be more valuable. That one weekend—she remembered it so vividly. Her manager had warned her about deadlines, but she'd stayed up three nights straight working on a forecasting model because she wanted to master it. And when she turned up late, exhausted, they let her go without even looking at her work.

"We need reliability, Celeste. Not passion."

It wasn't fair.

She felt that deep again—that jagged, clawing feeling of betrayal. Like the universe was laughing in her face. She had nothing left to offer, yet everyone still asked for more.

And now, Maya had handed her a tiny flame of hope.

Celeste sat up slowly, dragging her laptop onto the bed. Its screen flickered to life with the hum of overwork, the keys worn smooth from years of use.

She opened a blank document. The cursor blinked at her. Her reflection in the screen was pale and tired.

"Let's just… try," she muttered.

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Where did she even begin? Everything she had done suddenly felt small. Not good enough.

She stared at the screen.

Celeste stared at her laptop screen again, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as the white void of a blank document dared her to begin. The soft hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in her cramped apartment. Maya had already left an hour ago, giving her space, trusting she'd do what needed to be done. That trust weighed heavier than any obligation. Celeste owed her this much.

And she had.

She exhaled and began typing her name in bold. "Celeste Moreau." It looked both impressive and empty. She tried to recall everything she'd done, every project, every achievement—things that had once made her beam with pride. Now, they felt distant. Like they belonged to someone else.

Celeste Moreau.

Just typing her name felt like a lie. Like she was pretending to be someone she wasn't—someone who had it all together.

She shook her head. "No. I am that person. I worked for this."

She rummaged through a drawer, pulling out certificates, letters of recommendation, anything that could give her an edge. Her last job, though low-paying, had exposed her to real-world work in the finance sector. And that project—the one she got fired for—was a voluntary analysis she'd submitted for a bigger firm's open access case study. She lost her job trying to prove herself, trying to learn.

She started writing. Carefully. Bullet points turned into paragraphs. She listed her internships, the projects she took on voluntarily, her top-ranking academic achievements, the finance workshops she taught at her university to help juniors. Slowly, the imposter syndrome began to quiet down. Her CV wasn't overflowing with glamorous job titles, but it screamed effort. It screamed hunger.

Midway through, she got up and made herself a cup of tea. Not the fancy kind—just the discount bagged stuff she could afford. The steam calmed her, and when she sat down again, there was a little more determination in her spine.

She rewrote her objective statement three times. Maya had said the company valued individuality. She couldn't write the same old templated nonsense. So she made it raw, but smart.

"A driven finance graduate who believes that brilliance isn't born from luxury, but from necessity. I've spent years learning, adapting, and excelling with the bare minimum, and I'm ready to prove what I can do with more."

She paused. Reread it. Her throat tightened.

Yeah. That was her.

The night crept in as she finalized everything. She googled interview etiquette, common questions, researched the company's ethos, looked up the name of the team Maya worked in. She even started preparing a small pitch idea, just in case they asked about her creativity or vision.

Her printer was long dead, so she saved everything as PDFs, backed them up in an email to herself, and even added them to her phone.

At some point, her eyes burned from staring at the screen, but she couldn't stop. She edited her LinkedIn, cleaned up her online presence, updated her bio with just the right amount of grit.

When she finally leaned back, her body ached. But it was a different kind of ache. Not the crushing weight from earlier—this one came with a pulse of purpose.

Celeste closed her laptop and looked around the room. It was still small. Still old and tired. But it felt less like a prison now.

She lay back on her bed, arms stretched wide across the mattress.

"Maybe… just maybe, this will be it," she whispered to herself.

The weight hadn't disappeared, but for once, it wasn't winning.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, translating months of unseen effort into bullet points and paragraphs. Each word crafted with purpose, each sentence a shield for her vulnerabilities. It was exhausting. But it was necessary.

Three hours in, she finally leaned back, the finished resume saved and emailed to herself. Her chest still felt tight, her body buzzing with leftover anxiety, but she'd done it.

Then came a knock.

Celeste opened the door to find Maya again—this time, holding two takeaway cups of coffee and a soft, knowing smile.

"You didn't think I'd let you wallow all day, did you?" Maya teased.

Celeste cracked a tired grin. "You're relentless."

"Damn right. Now drink up and get dressed. We're going shopping. You need something to wear to the interview."

Celeste blinked. "Maya—"

"Nope. Not hearing it. This is not charity, okay? It's what friends do."

She wanted to protest, to insist she couldn't accept it, but the words died on her lips. Because Maya wasn't pitying her. She was standing beside her. And that meant everything.

An hour later, they were walking through a local boutique, one that Maya claimed had budget-friendly options. Still, every price tag made Celeste's stomach churn. Maya, sensing her unease, distracted her with jokes, opinions on what looked good, and the occasional twirl in front of the mirror.

Celeste tried on a navy-blue blouse that hugged her frame in just the right way and paired it with tailored black pants. She looked…professional. Like she belonged. Like she could walk into Blackridge Global and not be laughed out the door.

Maya paid for everything, even though Celeste gave her the look.

"You're going to get that job," Maya said while handing the bag over. "Then you can pay me back in overpriced coffee and weekend brunches."

They walked out into the dusk-lit street, laughter still echoing between them. For the first time in what felt like forever, Celeste didn't feel like she was sinking. She felt like she had a hand pulling her out.

And though guilt gnawed at the edges of her heart, she was mostly just…grateful.

Because someone believed in her. And that was enough for today.