100 ways to live

The fluorescent lights of the accounting firm always seemed to hum loudest right before closing time, a mocking drone after another twelve-hour grind. Sarah smoothed the collar of her worn blazer, clutching the key to her tiny apartment. An early finish tonight—a rare, glorious gift. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch with Mark, her steady, dependable boyfriend, and a cheap bottle of wine. Mark and Maya. That was her whole world since the accident took her parents. Mark, her anchor, and Maya, her hilarious, loyal best friend. They were the only two people who made the relentless treadmill of her life bearable. She reached her apartment complex, her heart lifting at the prospect of an evening off. But as she fumbled with the key, she heard voices from inside—Mark’s voice, low and dismissive, and another voice, one that made the blood run cold. "... I'm just using her for the money, you know that," Mark was saying, a casual cruelty in his tone that made her stomach clench. "She’s so oblivious. I mean, sure, she's pretty, but God, she’s stupid." Sarah's hand froze on the doorknob. No, no way. She pushed the door open, the faint click swallowed by the silence that followed her entrance. The scene snapped into devastating focus: Mark was sprawled on the couch, half-dressed, and next to him, sitting up and clutching a pillow to her chest, was Maya. Her best friend. Mark scrambled up, his face flashing from surprise to an ugly panic. "Sarah! Wait, it's not what you think—" The words were meaningless noise. The pain was instant, sharper than any physical blow, tearing through the last vestiges of her weary composure. The only two people she had left in the world—her rock and her sister—had conspired to shatter her. Tears, hot and blinding, streamed down her face. She didn't scream or confront them. She just turned, stumbling backward out the door, the sound of their frantic apologies fading behind her. She ran and was hit by a car on the road