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🟥I probably shouldn't be writing this. But I can't keep it to myself any longer. Before you read on, just know one thing. I'm not the kind of person who does this sort of thing. I never have been. For most of my adult life I've dealt with things quietly. Kept going. Didn't make a fuss. But the three people I told this to in person all said the same thing: "Jessica, write it down. People like you think they're going through this alone. They're not." So here it is. Once. And honestly. Who I am My name's Jessica. I'm 34. I live in Britain, in a flat I rent on my own. I work an ordinary job. Have done since I was 22. I'm not going to go into the details — it doesn't really matter. What matters is that I've always shown up. Always done what was asked. Never caused problems. I'm not telling you this to sound noble. I'm telling you because it matters for what comes next. My life in numbers I earn enough to get by. That's probably the most honest way to put it. After rent, council tax, bills, food and transport — there was usually somewhere between £180 and £260 left at the end of the month. Not to enjoy. Not to save. Just to absorb whatever went wrong. And something always went wrong. I'd open my banking app and think: right, another month done. Three years passed like that. January. That call. The company I'd been working for ran into serious trouble. Contracts fell through. My manager rang me himself — not a text, not an email. An actual phone call. "Jessica, I'm sorry. I've held on as long as I could. Friday will be your last day." I was in the middle of something when he called. Other people nearby. Life carrying on around me. I said: "I understand. Thank you for telling me yourself." I hung up. Then I finished what I was doing. That evening I sat in my flat and didn't turn the television on. Just sat there. I called my sister. She said: "You'll find something. You always do." I said: "I know. Thanks." Then I hung up. Years of showing up. O
