Just Missed You…

“It’s here!” Joey thought, the words pounding in his head. His heart raced as he ran his fingers over the smooth envelope in his hand. The paper felt thicker than anything he’d ever touched, high quality. Serious. Just holding it made his fingers itch, like it was burning his skin with everything it held.

Joey took a shaky breath and tried to tear the envelope open carefully, but his fingers slipped, fumbling at the seam. The more he tried to pull it apart gently, the more his hands shook, until he finally ripped it open, paper tearing in one swift, jagged line.

NOTICE OF EVICTION blared across the top of the letter.

His mouth went dry as he skimmed the text. The language was formal, ruthless, full of words like "delinquent" and "non-payment" and "legal action." But it all led to one devastating fact that hit him squarely between the eyes—he had seven days to leave his apartment. No extensions, no exceptions. One week to pack his life into boxes and find somewhere else to live.

Joey slumped onto the edge of his bed, staring at the notice, his thoughts in a haze. Seven days. Seven days to somehow change everything.

He let the letter slip from his fingers, watching it flutter to the worn carpet like a falling leaf. Outside his window, the sounds of the city pulsed, indifferent. A car honked. Someone shouted. Life moving forward, leaving him behind.

But Joey wasn’t ready to be left behind. Not yet, he thought, clenching his jaw. He stood, resolved, his eyes scanning the cramped room that had been his only shelter for months. It looked smaller now, as if the walls were already closing in. The cracked plaster, the peeling paint, the single crooked photo of his mother that he’d propped up against the wall for some reason he couldn’t remember anymore—all reminders of the precarious life he’d lived here.

Seven days. Joey’s mind latched onto it like a lifeline. He knew he had to try.

He shoved his last dollar bills into his pocket, grabbed his coat, and stepped out into the cold November air, letting the door swing shut behind him. He wouldn’t need to lock it.

The first place he went was the diner where he’d worked years ago as a teenager, hoping they might have a shift, a side gig, anything to tide him over. But when he arrived, he saw a new face behind the counter—a kid barely old enough to shave—who looked at him with a polite but apologetic smile.

“We’re fully staffed,” the kid said, shrugging as if to say, Sorry, man, you’re out of luck.

Joey nodded, trying to muster a smile, though it felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Thanks anyway,” he muttered, walking back into the biting wind.

He tried the hardware store next, then the gas station, even the rundown motel on the outskirts of town, but each place turned him away. The answer was always the same—a shake of the head, an apology, a look of pity. As if they could see right through him, sense his desperation in the way he gripped his coat tighter against the wind.

It was late afternoon by the time Joey found himself at the bus station, his legs aching and his stomach gnawing with hunger. He sank onto one of the hard plastic benches, staring blankly at the schedule board. One bus would take him south, to a town he’d never heard of. Another would go west, out of the state entirely.

For a fleeting moment, he considered it. Just getting on a bus, leaving everything behind. A fresh start, no one knowing his name, no reminders of everything he’d lost.

But even if he had money for a ticket, what would he do once he got there? With no job prospects and no savings, he’d end up in the same place he was now, just in a different town. The realization hit him like a wave, and he lowered his head, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

When he looked up, he noticed a line of people waiting to buy tickets, their conversations floating over to him like background noise. An older woman was talking about her son coming home, her voice filled with pride and warmth. Two teenagers giggled, showing each other selfies and snacking on a bag of chips. Joey watched them with a strange mixture of longing and resignation. Their lives felt so full, so secure, while his felt like it was slipping through his fingers with every passing second.

The air was turning colder as the day waned, and Joey’s breath came out in clouds as he finally stood up, feeling a little lost, a little desperate. He didn’t know where he was going, but his feet carried him forward, as if they had a mind of their own. And eventually, he found himself standing outside the dimly lit entrance of the neighborhood bar, a place he hadn’t set foot in for years.

He pushed open the heavy door and was greeted by the smell of whiskey, faint smoke, and worn leather. The bar was only half-full, the quiet hum of conversation blending with the low music playing from an old jukebox in the corner. Joey slid onto a stool at the bar, his eyes scanning the rows of bottles lined up against the wall. The bartender, a wiry man with a mop of silver hair and kind, tired eyes, approached him.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joey pulled out the crumpled bills from his pocket, smoothing them out on the bar. “Whatever this’ll get me,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The bartender looked at him, as if sizing him up, and poured him a whiskey, sliding it across the bar with a nod. Joey took a sip, the warmth spreading through his chest, loosening some of the tension that had been coiled inside him all day. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the burn, letting himself just feel it, just be in it, without trying to fight it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to just sit in his frustration, his fear, his loneliness. He’d spent so long running from these feelings, trying to ignore them or push them aside, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to really face them. And in that moment, as he looked around the bar, he realized he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

He watched the people around him, noticing the subtle, unspoken connections between them—the couple sharing a quiet laugh over their drinks, the group of friends clinking glasses, the solitary old man nursing his beer at the end of the bar. They were all just people, just like him, each carrying their own burdens, their own stories, their own struggles. And somehow, that thought gave him a strange sense of comfort, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

The bartender came over again, refilling his glass without a word. Joey looked at him, surprised.

“On the house,” the bartender said with a small smile. “You look like you could use it.”

Joey’s throat tightened, and he managed a nod, feeling a surge of gratitude he couldn’t put into words. He raised his glass in a silent toast, a gesture of thanks, and took another sip, letting the warmth fill him once again.

As the evening wore on, Joey found himself talking to the bartender, sharing bits and pieces of his story, his worries, his fears. The bartender listened quietly, nodding occasionally, offering the occasional word of advice or encouragement. And slowly, Joey felt a weight lifting from his shoulders, a sense of release he hadn’t realized he needed.

The night slipped by in a haze of quiet conversations, shared glances, and the soft clinking of glasses. And by the time he stepped back out into the cold November night, Joey felt different. Lighter, somehow. Not because his problems had disappeared, but because he’d finally allowed himself to face them, to share them, to acknowledge them.

He still had seven days. Seven days to figure out what came next. But for the first time, he felt like he could handle it. Like he could find a way forward, even if he didn’t know exactly what that would look like yet.

As he walked back to his apartment, the city lights casting a soft glow on the empty streets, Joey felt a small spark of hope igniting within him. And in that moment, he realized he wasn’t alone.