Day One Again

Trew sat in his parked car outside the apartment building, engine off, keys clenched in one hand like a talisman. The building wasn’t much to look at — three floors of tired red brick, paint peeling on the trim, a crooked row of mailboxes like bad teeth. But it was where he lived now. And this, for better or worse, was the start of the reset.

He had exactly two suitcases in the back seat. One with clothes, one with notebooks and random life detritus- a pair of cracked sunglasses, a high school yearbook, his last pay stub. He’d left the rest behind in Chicago. Or more accurately, he’d walked out of his old life like someone exiting a movie halfway through, tired of the plot.

The job had been steady — corporate communications for a big logistics firm. Six years in a gray cubicle, writing press releases no one read. The kind of job people said you were lucky to have. A few too many drinks after work. A few too many mornings staring into the mirror, wondering when he became a ghost in khakis. His girlfriend, Val, had seen it too.

She didn’t yell when he said he was leaving. Just nodded, folding his last clean T-shirt into one of her perfect little squares. “I hope you find whatever it is,” she said, without looking up. He still caught himself folding them her way, sometimes. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Only that he wasn’t going to find it in that office or that apartment or that version of himself.

So he drove west, picked a small city he barely knew — Flagstaff, Arizona — and signed a six-month lease online. It felt random, which made it feel right.

The apartment was hotter than he expected. Not in a desert way, more like someone had left the windows closed all day. He dropped the bags and opened them all, then stood in the middle of the room, waiting for something to feel different. Lighter, maybe. But it didn’t. It just felt like a smaller version of the place he’d just left.

The next morning, he walked downtown. Flagstaff had charm, he had to admit. College kids, mountain bikers, the smell of pine and coffee shops. He wandered into one called Velvet Roast, ordered a black coffee, and found a spot by the window.

He pulled out a notebook. Blank pages stared back.

This was supposed to be the new life. The one where he wrote things that mattered. Essays. Maybe fiction. Honest stuff. He’d told himself that for years — “When I get the time, I’ll write.” Now he had the time.

Nothing came out.

After twenty minutes of scribbling garbage sentences and crossing them out, he gave up and watched people instead.

A barista with tattoos down both arms moved like he’d been choreographed — fluid, fast, focused. A girl with a camera hung around her neck sat at the next table, editing shots on her laptop. A bearded guy in a flannel typed furiously on what looked like a screenplay.

They all looked like they belonged.

Trew felt like a guy playing dress-up. No job, no purpose, pretending to be someone who might someday become something.

He took a job bussing tables at a pizza place two blocks from his apartment. The manager, Barbara, didn’t ask much — just if he could show up on time and lift trays. He nodded. She handed him a T-shirt and told him to start the next night.

It was simple work. No one cared about his resume. His coworkers were a mix of college students and townies, most of whom didn’t ask questions. For the first time in years, he wasn’t performing. He wiped tables, refilled drinks, swept floors. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t shameful. It just was.

At night, he still tried to write. He filled notebooks with fragments — lines of dialogue, memories, things he wished he’d said to Val. Once, just to amuse her, he’d narrated an entire movie in fake French. She’d laughed so hard she spilled wine all over the couch.

One night after closing, he lingered outside with Barbara while she smoked.

“You’re not from here,” she said.

“Nope.”

“Running from something?”

“Running toward something,” he said, though it sounded flimsy even to him.

She gave him a look. “Same thing.”

They stood in silence.

“You seem like one of those guys who used to wear a tie every day,” she added.

“I was.”

“Well, you look better now.”

Three months in, he found a rhythm. Mornings at the coffee shop. Afternoons hiking or reading. Nights at the pizza place. His body got leaner. His thoughts quieter. He’d stopped checking LinkedIn.

He also stopped telling people back home what he was doing. His parents didn’t understand it. His friends were supportive in a vague way, but he could tell they were waiting for him to snap back. To go back to being the guy with the plan.

But there was no plan now. Just pages.

One night, he wrote a short story. It wasn’t about him, but it kind of was — a man who quit his job and moved to a mountain town to start over, only to realize he couldn’t outrun himself. It was messy, but honest. He submitted it to a small online magazine. Three weeks later, they accepted it.

It wasn’t a big deal. No one paid him. But it was something in the world now. Something that hadn’t existed before.

He printed the email and taped it to the wall of his apartment.

Six months came fast. The lease ended. Barbara offered to bump him to part-time manager if he wanted to stay. He thought about it.

But something had shifted.

He didn’t feel stuck anymore. He didn’t feel saved either. Just... awake.

He didn’t need Flagstaff to be his new life. It had just been a place where he stopped lying to himself. Where he figured out that reinvention isn’t a single act. It’s a decision you make over and over. Every day you choose something truer.

He packed the same two suitcases. Sold the car. Bought a one-way train ticket north.

Before he left, he left a note for Barbara in the breakroom.

Thanks for giving me a place to be a person again.

On the train, he opened a new notebook.

Wrote one line at the top.

Day one again.

Then he kept going.