The Beginning of Wisdom
The parking garage smells like exhaust and cold concrete, and Maya sits in the driver's seat of her Honda with the engine off, keys still dangling from the ignition, unable to make herself turn them the rest of the way. Level three. She remembers that much, at least—one small fact she managed to retain in a day crowded with a thousand others. Fluorescent light buzzes somewhere above her, flickering in a rhythm that makes the concrete pillars look like they're breathing. She should go home. She has been telling herself this for eleven minutes now, watching the clock on the dashboard tick forward in a way that feels almost mocking.
Instead, she picks up her phone.
The screen lights her face in pale blue, and her thumb moves before her mind fully agrees to it, swiping open the app she swore last week she'd delete. There's Jenna from college, posting a sun-drenched photo from Tulum, captioned *chose myself this year 🌴✨*. There's a woman she vaguely recognizes from a marketing conference two years back, now apparently running a seven-figure business from her "dream kitchen," all marble countertops and messageless calm. There's someone else's toddler in a monogrammed romper, someone…