the edge of the quarter scraped against my finger, tucked deep in the sofa seam. five quarters. a buck twenty-five. and the automatic clench hit, that familiar jerk in my gut, the instant, sickening relief. a buck twenty-five. and for a second, my brain did the math, like it always does, what it could cover. and then the rage. the FUCKING rage. because someone told me i'm 'doing so well now.' well? when a buck twenty-five still feels like a goddamn lifeline? when that phantom ache of an empty bank account, that $35 penalty for being poor, still makes my jaw clench over spare change? it's not well. it's just a different kind of bullshit. it's the same math, just with slightly less terror. and that's not 'well.' that's just not actively drowning. yet. and that's supposed to be a win? fuck that.