INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – EVENING
I sent the message and immediately set my phone down on the glass table — like a smoldering coal that had been burning in my hand. I stared at it, breathless, desperate for a response, a notification, a ring — any sign of life. Please. Or else my world would start to hemorrhage, slowly ebbing away. Texting had become dangerous business: modern-day Russian Roulette.
I couldn’t believe my friend had talked me into this. I shouldn’t have done it — not now. Not when my heart was still fragile from the fiasco with — I couldn’t even say his name. That name had forfeited its place on my lips. Five years of marriage flushed down the drain. After that, I had thought I’d never love again.
Meeting someone new, opening myself again, was terrifying. What made it terrifying was that love demanded naivety. I had to dismantle the defenses I’d built over a lifetime, surrender my heart completely, offering it on the altar of happiness — trusting my sacrifice would be received. We call ancient civilizations barbaric, yet daily, I performed the same ritual.
INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – LIVING ROOM
Five minutes passed. No signs of life. I tried to distract myself, turning up the volume on Will & Grace, the sound bouncing off the bare walls of my one-bedroom flat. I had barely unpacked since moving six months ago — no curtains hung yet. The apartment felt like a museum of my failure, the walls echoing every heartbeat.
The lawyer had ordered the sale of the house, the cars, splitting the wealth. Downgrading to a flat from a palace wasn’t easy. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t unpacked: to unpack would be to consent to my new reality, to manifest it. A part of me still hoped I’d wake from this nightmare into my king-sized bed, pillows soft under my head, his voice whispering, “Wake up, Katey. Just a bad dream, darling.” But this wasn’t a dream. It was a cruel awakening.
My eyes clung to the screen, managing a weak smile. Comedy had become my sustenance — a distraction. My psychologist had told me to go out, meet people. “Pursue a fresh start, Kate,” she said. “Rebuild your self-esteem. You are still attractive.” I wished I had her optimism. Divorce felt like a red stamp on my forehead: rejected goods. Credibility ruined. Better to never build than to build and fail — a folly displayed like a joke for strangers passing by.
INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – MEMORY FLASHBACK
Unlike Jennifer, single for life, her motto: girls must just have fun. By “fun,” she meant hookups, fleeting pleasures. I didn’t want her life, nor her philosophy. Jennifer had dragged me to a dance club that Friday, introducing me to Fredrick.
“He’s looking at you, Kate!” she shrieked like a schoolgirl. I protested, fearing I wasn’t his type. Yet he came over, smiled, gave me his number. “Message me if you want lunch,” he said. A week later, I did. Thirty minutes ago. No response.
INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
It was astonishing how a simple text could dictate my mental state. Agitation crept in, heat flushed my body. “What if he doesn’t respond?” a whisper of panic in my mind. Perhaps he was busy. A successful butcher, maybe the shop demanded overtime. I walked to the kitchen for water. A few gulps later, thirst remained. Back on the couch, the phone still silent. Fredrick, where were you?
An hour passed. Regret gnawed at me. I wanted an undo button, a chance to retract every misstep. Why had I sent that message? Who would love me — a divorced, failed woman? Fredrick probably saw it too: failure written on me. The divorce, the rejection, the inability to maintain a home, a marriage, a life. Not pretty enough, not enough, too emotional. From youth, something was “wrong” with me, I thought. Everyone leaves. Even Fredrick would.
INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – SPIRALING INTO FEAR
“Who are you?!” I cried, hot tears streaming. I paced, hands over ears, terrified of myself.
“If he doesn’t respond, you will know why.”
“Get out of my head!”
“You are unloveable.”
“I said get out!”
“You have even failed God.”
“Please… stop!”
Voices swirled around me, a storm in my chest. I collapsed on the couch, sobbing. Pain consumed me. Their words pierced, a whip across my heart.
“You don’t deserve love. You don’t deserve a fresh start. You deserve to die.”
Sharp pain shot through my chest. Breaths shallow, intermittent. I felt my body betray me, vertigo spinning around me. I stumbled to the kitchen, tears blinding me, and my eyes fell on the timber knife set Jennifer had gifted me, just days after my divorce. “Here’s to your fresh start,” the note said. I drew the sharpest knife, its edge gleaming.
INT. KATEY’S APARTMENT – MOMENT OF RELIEF
I lifted it toward myself, poised at the epicenter of pain, when a notification sounded.
Time froze. Vertigo ebbed. Pain receded. The voices departed. Will & Grace laughed softly in the background. The knife fell with a clang, stripped of menace, once again a kitchen tool.
Life returned in a heartbeat. That ping — that tiny light — was hope. A fresh start. I was not a reject.
I snatched up my phone.
A message from Walmart, advertising a promotional discount.
Lives Between Walls 
What do you think about this?