Page 7 of He Knows When You're Awake

I turn back to the resignation letter, forcing myself to finish it before I lose my nerve. The final version is diplomatic but clear:

Dear Jasmine,

I am writing to formally tender my resignation from my position as Senior Designer at Moth to the Flame, effective January 15th. While I deeply appreciate the opportunities for growth and development that Moth to the Flame has provided over the past three years, I believe it is time for me to pursue my own creative vision.

I will ensure all current projects are properly transitioned and documented before my departure. Please let me know how I can best assist in making this transition as smooth as possible.

Thank you for your mentorship and guidance.

Best regards,

Sloane Whitmore

Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Send. The letter feels both too formal and not formal enough, but it will have to do.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my mother.

“Sloane, honey,” she says when I answer, her voice carrying that particular tone that always makes me feel like I’m sixteen again. “I got your message. Are you sure you can’t make it to Christmas?Your father’s already planning his traditional oyster roast, and your brother’s flying in from Seattle.”

I close my eyes, guilt gnawing at my stomach. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just... I can’t this year. I’m making some big changes with work, and I need to focus on getting everything set up.”

“Changes?” Her voice sharpens with interest. “What kind of changes? Did you finally get that promotion?”

“Not exactly.” I bite my lip, debating how much to tell her. “I’m actually leaving Moth to the Flame. I’m going to start my own line.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Your own line,” she repeats slowly. “Sloane, honey, is that wise? In this economy? What about your health insurance?”

Classic Mom, going straight for the practical concerns. “I’ve thought it through,” I say, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice. “I’ve been saving, and I have some potential investors interested.” A slight stretch of the truth, but better than telling her about all the rejection letters.

“But you have such a good position now,” she persists. “Stable income, benefits, a clear career path. Why risk all that?”

I stand up, pacing the small confines of my apartment. Through my window, I can see the Manhattan skyline, a reminder of why I came here in the first place. To create something bold and daring. “Because I have to, Mom. Because if I don’t try now, I never will.”

She sighs, and I can picture her expression. The same look she wore when I announced I was going to Parsons instead of following Dad into medicine or her into law. “I just worry about you, sweetheart. New York is so expensive, and the jewelry business is so competitive... As it is, you’re in an industry that’s so volatile.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But I have to try. This is my dream.”

“Dreams don’t pay the rent,” she reminds me gently. “Just...promise me you’ll be careful? And that you’ll reconsider coming home for Christmas? You shouldn’t be alone during the holidays, especially with all this change happening.”

“I promise I’ll be careful,” I say, dodging the Christmas question. “I have to go. I need to get to work.”

After hanging up, I stare out the window—dazed. Am I determined, maybe, or just desperate? Lost? Confused? Have I lost my freaking mind? The conversation with my mother has left me feeling... feeling... hell if I know.

I look at my phone as if Jasmine will have already responded, then tuck it and my portfolio into my bag. The weight of the unanswered email feels like a bomb waiting to go off.

The subway ride to work is a blur of nervous energy. I clutch my portfolio closer, drawing comfort from the familiar leather texture. Inside are the sketches for Midnight Frost. My vision, my future. I flip it open, studying the designs I know by heart. Each piece tells a story of transformation, of beauty found in darkness.

Moth to the Flame’s offices are located in the heart of Manhattan. The brick walls and exposed pipes on the inside usually feel inspiring, but today they feel oppressive. I make my way to my desk, noting how Jasmine’s office door is already closed—a sign she’s in one of her “creative visualization” sessions.

“You look like you’re either about to throw up or take over the world,” Maya, my assistant, observes as I sit down. “Possibly both.”

I manage a weak smile. “Let’s go with option two.”

She leans in, lowering her voice. “Seriously, are you okay? You’ve got that look you get before a big presentation.”

I glance around to make sure no one’s within earshot. “I’m giving notice today.”