The math does not care how tired I am

I ate alone. That is not new but tonight it felt deliberate, like I was punishing myself for something. The halal cart guy asked if I was okay and I said I was just tired and he gave me extra hot sauce and I almost cried in front of a man who sells lamb over rice. I walked home with that little container of extra hot sauce in my bag like it was a diploma.

The subway was fine. I sat with the envelope photo on my phone anded it until the pixels screamed. Nia's name in the message header. I have been accused of stealing a watch I have never seen by a woman who knew exactly where to send the story first. That is not coincidence. That is architecture. Someone built this and I keep looking for the door they left open.

I called my sister and she talked about her kids and a thing at her church and I smiled the whole time like a woman who was not one bad rating away from losing everything. She would say I am spiraling. She would be right. But spiraling is better than standing still while Tasha Reed tells clients I am a thief.

My arm itched under the stitches. Three of them. I keep forgetting and then I remember and then I wish I could forget again.

The notebook is spread across my kitchen table. Every envelope. Every handoff. I mapped them like a detective who also has a 4.6 rating and a child who will not stop asking about her hair. I am doing the math on paper because the math in my head is not working. Something in this chain does not add up and when I find it I will know who planted this story and I will not forgive them quietly.