Shayla's in for a shocker - she's about to kiss her apartment goodbye

Shayla’s In for a Shocker

Shayla Jenkins had everything planned down to the last detail.

At 27, she was finally living the life she'd imagined—working as a marketing coordinator at a trendy boutique firm in downtown Chicago, sipping overpriced oat milk lattes, and living in a cozy one-bedroom apartment with exposed brick walls and a skyline view that made her feel like she was in a Netflix series. Rent wasn’t cheap, but between her job, her freelance graphic design gigs, and occasionally babysitting her best friend's unruly twins, she managed.

That was, until Thursday morning.

She had just stepped out of the shower, her towel turban balanced on her head, when the knock came. A firm, repetitive rhythm that sounded official.

Peeking through the peephole, she saw a stocky man in a city inspector’s uniform and a woman with a clipboard. Shayla opened the door, one eye still lined with dripping mascara.

“Miss Jenkins?” the woman asked.

“Yes?” Shayla said, a little wary.

“We’re here on behalf of the building inspector’s office. You might want to sit down.”

What followed hit her like a brick—no pun intended.

Apparently, her apartment building, the charming prewar walk-up she’d fallen in love with, had been deemed structurally unsound. Cracks in the foundation, outdated wiring, and mold infestations in the walls of several units. Shayla's was one of the worst. Immediate evacuation was required. Tenants had 72 hours to vacate.

She blinked. “Wait—evacuate? Like, move out? All the way out?”

“Yes, ma’am. Effective immediately.”

Her mouth went dry. “I just renewed my lease.”

The woman gave her a sympathetic look. “I hope you kept your renter’s insurance.”

By the time the officials left, Shayla was staring at her apartment like a stranger. Her couch. Her photos. Her vision board taped above the desk. All suddenly temporary.

She called her landlord, Dennis—a perpetually absent man who mostly communicated via grainy voice notes and emojis.

“Yeah, I just found out myself,” he said, voice tinny and unconcerned. “Real shame. Anyway, I’ll try to get everyone their deposits back in a few weeks.”

Shayla almost dropped her phone. “Try?”

---

Over the next three days, Shayla was in a daze—sorting, packing, arguing with movers, and calling every friend she had in a panic. Her friend Karina offered her couch. “Just till you figure it out,” she said.

Shayla didn’t cry until her last night in the apartment, standing alone in the kitchen. Her favorite mug was packed, so she sipped wine from a soup bowl. She looked around at the empty walls and felt like someone had fast-forwarded through a chapter of her life she wasn’t ready to finish.

And yet—something in her stirred.

She'd always wanted to move to the West Coast. Maybe this was the universe shoving her out of the nest. Or maybe it was just bad plumbing.

Either way, she knew this: when one door closes, a building inspector might condemn the whole floor, but a new one opens—probably with less mold.

The next morning, she left her keys on the counter and walked out with nothing but her suitcase, laptop, and a fierce sense of resolve.

Shayla Jenkins was homeless—but not hopeless. And she was just getting started