Chapter 2 The Burnout

I didn't plan to quit. Not really.

It wasn't a big declaration or a meltdown. It was quiet. Strange how some of the biggest shifts in your life don't happen with fireworks - just silence.

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. My fourth Zoom call of the day, fifth coffee. I stared at the charts on my screen - sales projections, brand expansion, the usual. Someone was talking. I wasn't listening. I just... couldn't anymore.

There was a company laptop in front of me, and a notepad beside it that I'd barely touched. I stood up mid-meeting, turned off my camera, closed the laptop, and placed it gently in its case. I left my employee ID on my desk. No email. No two-week notice. Just... walked out.

I didn't cry. Not yet.

But that night, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall for six hours straight. Didn't eat. Didn't move. My body wasn't mine anymore. Just a shell holding in exhaustion I couldn't even explain.

By midnight, I opened my phone and scrolled aimlessly. My thumb hovered over the contact list before landing on a name I hadn't seen in months - Jade Elwood.

We weren't close anymore. University friends, technically. We used to grab shawarma between lectures and cram for finals in the library. After graduation, we drifted. I followed her vaguely online. Amsterdam. A fellowship abroad. Something about her needing someone to house-sit while she was gone.

She'd posted about it once - a casual "anyone want to sublet?" story I never imagined I'd respond to. Until then.

I messaged her:

"Hey. Are you still leaving for that trip soon? I might need a place... kind of urgently."

She replied faster than I expected:

"Yup. Still going. I actually need someone ASAP. You serious?"

"Very."

"Cool. You'd be doing me a favour. I'd rather someone keep the place warm than leave it empty. I'll send you the lease terms. Can you get here this weekend?"

I booked my flight that night.

Jade was still at the apartment when I arrived in Amsterdam. I thought I'd have the place to myself right away, but she said her flight got pushed back by a day. When I knocked, she opened the door with her phone pressed to her ear and her suitcase half-zipped behind her.

"Eva! Hey - sorry, I've been a bit all over the place. Come in, come in."

The apartment was beautiful. Bigger than I expected. White walls, high ceilings, everything minimalist but expensive-looking. There was barely a dent in the couch cushions. It smelled faintly of citrus and fresh paint.

Jade waved her hand toward the kitchen counter. "I printed the lease for you. Just need your signature. Nothing scary - it's standard sublet stuff. You'll be fine."

I walked over to the envelope. The contract looked thick. I flipped a few pages and frowned at the tiny legal print. My name was already typed in at the top.

"Take your time if you want," she said, but she was already glancing at the clock. "I just... really need to make it to Schiphol by seven. They're not flexible with international check-ins."

She pulled a pen out of her coat pocket and handed it to me.

"It's all formalities. Promise."

I wanted to read it properly. I really did. But something in me - maybe the exhaustion, maybe the need to just move on already - pushed the thought aside. I signed where the yellow tabs told me to.

She looked relieved.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver," she said, and pulled me in for a quick hug. "Keep the place tidy. Water the ferns once a week. There's a little note on the fridge with reminders. I left you coffee pods."

She rolled her suitcase to the door, gave me one last grin, and left.

Just like that.

For a while, it felt like I had stepped into someone else's life.

The first two days, I barely left the guest room. I unpacked slowly. Walked through the apartment room by room. Everything felt untouched - like a showroom made to look lived-in.

There was a reading nook tucked beside the window, with pillows arranged perfectly and a folded blanket that smelled faintly like cinnamon and something unfamiliar. I sat there on the third day and stayed for hours, laptop on my knees, sipping lukewarm coffee as the streetlights blinked on outside.

The job I'd found was small - a remote editing role at a publishing company that specialized in indie fiction. I reviewed manuscripts, wrote feedback, corrected clumsy dialogue. It wasn't glamorous. But it was books, and books had always felt like something I could hold on to.

After a week, I started jogging again. Early mornings, just before the streets got busy. There was a canal two blocks away with a path that wound through the trees. I'd pass a woman walking her beagle every morning. We never spoke, just nodded.

There was a routine now.

Coffee. Edit. Walk. Edit. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

And for a while, it worked.

Jamie sent voice notes sometimes. My brother. Younger, but often more grounded than me.

"Hey. Just checking in. Mum keeps asking if you've eaten anything other than toast."

I sent him a picture of the bakery down the street. A blurry croissant. He sent back a meme of a raccoon eating spaghetti.

We didn't talk about the job. Or why I left. Or how I was doing, really. But he knew me well enough to wait.

It's been three weeks.

Not much has changed. But I've started noticing little things.

Like how curated the apartment feels. Like a photo set someone forgot to dismantle. There's a tall shelf in the hallway - full of untouched books, perfectly spaced. The first time I tried to shift it so I could dust behind it, I remembered Jade's note from the fridge:

"Please don't move the hallway shelf. It's heavy and annoying to reposition."

It felt oddly specific.

I left it alone.

This morning, something weird happened.

I was walking past the café with the mismatched chairs when a man turned as I passed. Nothing dramatic. Just a glance. Then he smiled - slow, like he recognized me.

I didn't recognize him.

But it wasn't just him. It's been happening more. Quick glances that linger. Strangers holding eye contact too long. A barista who looked like she wanted to ask me something and then didn't.

It could be nothing. Maybe I remind them of someone. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

Still, it leaves a tight feeling in my chest.

I told myself this move would fix me.

I told myself that distance, quiet, routine - all of it would be enough.

But there are nights when I lie in this too-perfect apartment, beneath sheets I didn't buy, in a room that still smells like Jade's laundry detergent, and I wonder if I've just traded one kind of surveillance for another.

Sometimes I catch myself glancing toward the corners of the room.

Like something's watching.

And I remind myself that I signed the lease too quickly. That I didn't read the fine print.

That Jade smiled too fast when I handed her the pen.