Five years ago, I was twenty-eight and living in a studio apartment that was basically a closet with plumbing. The shower was so close to the toilet that if you bent down to pick up shampoo, you could accidentally flush with your elbow. The kitchen was a single stretch of counter that ended right at the bed. I used to joke that I could cook pasta while still lying under my blanket, and it was only half a joke.
I lived that way on purpose.
Every morning, I’d wake up and look at the whiteboard I’d hung above my desk, where I’d written one number in thick black marker: 120,000.
That number wasn’t greed. It wasn’t a luxury. It was a door.
Freedom had a price tag, and I was paying it in slow, miserable installments. I ate canned beans because they were cheap. I took the bus because I didn’t want a car payment. I bought thrift store sweaters and pretended it was a quirky aesthetic choice. I worked late nights as a software developer until the code blurred and my eyes burned, then took freelance gigs on weekends while my friends went to brunch and posted pictures of mimosas like happiness was something you could order off a menu.