The Genie Is You

"Some people grow; I just get older."

People like to think rock bottom comes with a bang. Flashy. Dramatic. Maybe even poetic, if you’re lucky. But for me, it was a Tuesday. Gray sky, cold coffee, cigarette ash stuck to my lip, and some sad bastard telling me I’ve got “potential” like it’s a compliment and not a warning.

I’m Rae. Just Rae. Not short for anything. Not trying to be edgy. That’s just what stuck after everything else fell off.

I’m thirty-two. Still say I’m thirty when I meet people, because those two extra years feel like a punishment I don’t deserve, even though—let’s be real—I probably do. Been working nights at this run-down bar off 5th and Ellison where the jukebox only plays breakup songs and the bathrooms always smell like regret. Place is a dump, but it’s my dump. I pour drinks, fake laughs, tell the regulars their lives aren’t that bad, and then go home and drink twice as much as they did.

I live in this shoebox of an apartment where the walls are thin enough to hear my neighbor scream at his dog like it’s his ex-wife. Most of the furniture came off the curb. Half of it wobbles. My fridge hums like it’s trying to confess something, and the only picture I’ve got hanging is a crooked Polaroid from a night I barely remember. I think that’s fitting.

People don’t really stick around me long. I talk too much when I shouldn’t, shut down when I should talk. Say the wrong thing just to see how fast they flinch. It’s not on purpose. I just... forget how to be someone people want to stay for. I get loud when I’m scared, sarcastic when I’m cornered. And when I’m tired—which is most days—I shut the world out completely and crawl into myself like a wasp nest no one dares poke.

I’m a smoker. Been one since seventeen. Back then, I thought it made me look cool. Now it just keeps my hands busy so they don’t do something stupid. Drinking? That’s another story. Bourbon’s cheaper than therapy and less judgmental than friends. I keep a bottle by the bed and another in my coat. Always prepared. Always one sip from feeling nothing at all.

You could say I’ve got issues. Anger, mostly. Some sadness underneath, like a basement no one talks about. Arrogant, sure—I know I’m smart, I just don’t use it. Never could figure out what to do with brains that only kick in when I’m panicking. I coast through life like a flat tire still pretending it can race.

No dreams, not really. I don’t sit around wishing for the white picket fence or six-figure job. I just want... quiet. Not even peace, just the kind of quiet where my own thoughts don’t echo so loud it hurts. Some nights, I stare at the ceiling and wonder what it’d be like to wake up with purpose. Then I roll over and chain-smoke until I forget I asked.

I wear black a lot. Not in a “goth phase” kind of way—more like, black doesn’t show stains, and I don’t like looking at myself in color. Jeans with rips that aren’t from the store, boots that’ve been through more than I have, and a jacket that still smells like a bonfire from four winters ago. Hair’s black too—box dye every few months when I remember. It’s usually tangled. I don’t care.

I’ve got a mean streak and a soft spot buried under all the rust. I pretend not to care about people, but then I’ll lose sleep wondering if that guy who always orders the gin and tonic made it home safe. Stupid, right? I’ll light someone up with words that cut like broken glass, then cry about it when they’re gone. But I’ll never say sorry out loud. Can’t. It sticks in my throat like gravel.

I don’t believe in fate. I believe in missed chances, bad timing, and the slow decay of good intentions. I believe some people just... fall through the cracks. I’m one of them. But I’m still here. Still waking up. Still lighting that first cigarette of the day with hands that shake just a little less than yesterday.

I’m not trying to be better. I’m not here to change. I’m not some redemption arc wrapped in cheap philosophy. I’m just Rae.

And for now, that’s gonna have to be enough.