Breath 1
The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and sweat,
the remnants of another restless night.
Tom stirred under a heap of clothes, half-buried in his unmade bed.
The mattress sagged beneath him, the springs groaning as he shifted.
He was in nothing but a pair of worn-out boxer briefs,
the fabric loose around his hips.
His body was a map of lean muscle and sharp edges,
but exhaustion dulled whatever beauty lay beneath his skin.
His eyes cracked open to the sight of his ceiling—water-stained,
with a long crack splitting across it like a scar.
The dim morning light barely made it through the tattered curtains,
casting weak streaks over the room cluttered with beer cans,
crumpled receipts, and a half-eaten carton of takeout.
Somewhere under the mess, his phone vibrated,
rattling against an empty bottle. His alarm.
With a groan, he swung his legs off the bed,
knocking over a pile of laundry.
Socks, shirts, and god-knows-what else tumbled to the floor.
His feet touched the cold wooden boards, rough and splintered.
The whole apartment was a sad excuse for a home—walls peeling,
a faint smell of mildew seeping from the corners, the radiator long broken.
He trudged to the bathroom, the door creaking on its rusted hinges.
The overhead light flickered, humming like it was on its last breath.
The shower tiles were cracked, their grout blackened with years of neglect.
A steady drip echoed from the rust-stained faucet into the tub,
which had lost its once-white surface beneath layers of soap scum and regret.
He turned the tap, and a groan rattled through the pipes
before a sad trickle of lukewarm water sputtered out.
Tom sighed.
He leaned into the mirror above the chipped sink,
rubbing his face. Dark circles clung under his eyes, a testament to sleepless nights
and endless shifts.
He picked up his razor, running a palm over the stubble dusting his jaw.
For a second, his eyes flickered down to his body.
His hand, moving on its own, ghosted over his stomach, feeling the ridges of his abs.
His fingers drifted lower, pausing.
But the weight of reality pressed down,
snuffing out the moment before it could fully form.
He had no time. No energy. Not even for that.
With a sharp exhale, he turned back to the mirror,
pressing the razor to his skin.
One careful stroke at a time, he erased the shadow of stubble,
his expression unreadable, his mind already on the day ahead.
Back in the bedroom,
he tore through the mountain of laundry on his bed.
Shirt, pants, apron—his waiter uniform.
He held it up and sniffed.
A deep grimace.
He hadn’t washed it.
He had meant to, but between juggling shifts and barely scraping by,
it had slipped through the cracks. Like everything else.
His phone alarm blared again. He shut it off and sighed. He had to go.
Tom fumbled with his keys, exhaustion pressing heavy on his shoulders
as he struggle to lock his apartment door.
Damn, everything about this place is falling apart,
including the rusted dead bolt.
Why bother locking the place up when there’s really nothing to stole,
except his soul, the only breathing part of him
which maybe was still inside
buried under the rubles of his yesterday’s laundry.
He looked around,
the dimly lit hallway smelled like old takeout and cheap
air freshener—his neighbors’ poor attempt at masking the scent of reality.
Depressing. Totally.
Just as he manage to slid the key into the lock,
a voice—sharp, unwavering—cut through the silence.
"Where’s my fucking rent, chico?"
Tom flinched. He turned slowly, already bracing himself.
The landlady finally caught him.
He had been ducking, avoiding her for weeks.
Mrs. Alvarez stood there, arms crossed,
foot tapping against the linoleum floor,
her expression a mix of amusement and impatience.
"Good evening, Mrs. Alvarez," Tom said, forcing a smile,
hoping to soften the inevitable blow.
"Evening?" She scoffed. "You think I give a damn about pleasantries
when you’re two months late?
What do I look like, Santa Maria de la Piedad?"
She snapped her fingers in his face. "The rent, Tom. Now."
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
"I just need a little more time, I swear. Work’s been—"
Mrs. Alvarez held up a wrinkled hand.
"I don’t want your excuses, mijo.
You think the landlady accepts ‘just a little more time excuse? I’m not that kinda girl, Tom,
I’m someone you take seriously, someone you introduce to your mom."
Tom opened his mouth, but she wasn’t done.
"You live in my building, chico,
which means I am responsible for you.
And if I don’t get my money, guess what?
That responsibility disappears—poof—like a bad ex."
Tom sighed. "I’m working on it, I promise."
Mrs. Alvarez narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him.
She run the tip of her brightly painted fake nails on
Tom’s chin, tracing the contour of his face.
She likes Tom.
But whenever she glanced at Tom, there’s something about him
that’s dark. Depressing.
Yes, he’s depressing. Very.
Mrs. Alvarez run her nail down Tom’s chest,
and slowly, greedily, she lifted his shirt
revealing the delicate contours of his abs.
Mrs. Alvarez did not stop there.
She went lower.
Her nails traveled downwards and stop short
right on the ridge of Tom’s underwear waistband.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she shook her head.
No, he’s really depressing.
"You’re lucky I like you, Tomás. Otherwise,
you’d be out in the street faster than my ex-husband
when I caught him sneaking around with the Zumba instructor."
Tom bit back a smile.
"But don’t think that means I’m charity, niño,"
she warned, wagging a finger. "I want my money, soon."
"Understood," Tom mumbled.
Mrs. Alvarez gave him one last pointed look before turning on her heel,
muttering something about "young guys these days" as she disappeared down the hall.
Tom let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
He lost count of how many times
he kept his breath on hold
because silence in times of trouble
is the only friend left.
He finally locked his door,
He ran a hand down his face.
"One day at a time," he muttered to himself, shutting the door behind him.
He rushed downstairs, skipping the other
depressing hallways and crappy neighbors who smirked at him,
he run towards the exit, as he steps out, the window to his apartment creaked open above him.
“Tom!” Mrs. Alvarez shouted, and suddenly,
his clothes came flying out.
Like confetti.
Only this time, nobody’s celebrating.
His heart sank as he watched his
shirts, jeans, socks—tumbled through the air like dying birds.
Next, she threw his worn-out couch first.
It landed with a loud thud on the pavement,
barely missing a passerby who jumped out of the way,
muttering curses under his breath.
Then, one by one, more clothes followed.
His shirts, pants, and jackets flung out of the window like a broken piñata
spilling its guts. His shoes landed with a sickening thud,
just missing a woman who yelled, "Watch it!" as she hurried away, startled.
"What the hell?!" Tom shouted, his face reddening with disbelief.
Mrs. Alvarez didn’t respond.
Instead, she just gave him the finger, her face lit up with a creepy grin.
And then, just as Tom thought it couldn’t get worse,
she tossed his underwear at him.
His used brief landed over his head,
he yanked it off, staring up at her in disbelief.
For a moment, he just stood there, stunned, the underwear hanging limply on his face.
Tom blinked, a weird numbness settling over him.
He could feel the cold air around him,
and for the first time in a long while,
he realized how little he had.
How empty his life had become.
His chest tightened, the weight of his situation crashing down on him all at once.
This wasn’t just about the rent anymore. It wasn’t just about Mrs. Alvarez’s cruelty.
It was everything. He had nothing.
And he was losing everything.
He picked up his clothes from the pavement, trying to gather whatever scraps of
dignity he had left, but it felt pointless.
His fingers trembled as he stuffed his shirt into his arms,
unable to stop the tears from falling.
One tear slid down his cheek, and before he knew it,
he was crying.
The weight of it all—the stress, the disappointment, the humiliation—was too much.
He’d never felt more alone in his life.
“Consider this your eviction notice!” she barked before slamming the window shut.
Tom exhaled, long and slow, his breath visible in the early evening air.
He had work to do, and now, he had nowhere to go.
He just lost his apartment.
The only thing going on now on his life is his work:
the Thai restaurant.
He checked his phone.
Damn it, he’s late, his boss, Ploy as always will be pissed off.
