I should get up.
The thought drifts through my mind like a half-formed sigh, heavy with the weight of another day. My body feels anchored to the mattress, limbs sluggish, as if the air itself is pressing down on me.
Today will be different.
I say it every morning. A quiet promise to myself, one I know I won't keep. But the lie is comforting, like a worn-out blanket—familiar, even if it doesn't really warm me anymore.
Adulthood wasn't supposed to feel like this. When I was little, I thought growing up meant freedom. Control. A life that belonged to me. But somewhere along the way, I became a ghost in my own story, smiling when I should speak, nodding when I should say no.
It's fine. You're fine.
I drag myself upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is dim, the kind of gray that makes everything feel unfinished. My reflection in the mirror looks tired. Hollow. But I force a small smile anyway—practice for the world.
Then—
"FUCKING IS ALL I DO—"
The bass shakes the walls, the vulgar lyrics slicing through the fragile quiet of my apartment. My hands clench into fists, then release.
Again.
My neighbor. Of course. The same one who swore he'd "keep it down" after I mustered up the courage to knock on his door last month. My cheeks had burned as I stammered out my request, already apologizing for bothering him. He'd grinned, said "No problem, sweetheart," and then—predictably—did nothing.
I could go over there again. I could bang on his door, demand he turn it down. But what's the point? He won't listen. And then I'll spend the rest of the day replaying the interaction, wondering if I was too harsh, if I made him angry, if now he'll really turn up the music just to spite me.
Easier to just endure it.
I exhale, long and slow, and reach for my headphones.
Another morning of drowning out the noise, both outside and inside my head.
The hot water had washed away the physical exhaustion, but the weight in my chest remained. I stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and dressed in the uniform of corporate survival—a crisp blouse, tailored slacks, shoes that pinched just enough to remind me I was awake.
At least the fabric feels nice.
Small comforts. That's what my life had become. A series of tiny compensations for the hollowness I refused to name.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
I swiped it open.
Good morning, love (Delivered 6:15 AM)
Like (Read 7:30 AM)
That was it. A thumbs-up. No words, no "Good morning, beautiful," no "Have a great day." Just… acknowledgment. Like I was a task he'd checked off his list.
But it's something. At least he saw it and responded.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and tucked my phone into my bag.
Maybe he was busy. Maybe he'd reply later. Maybe—
Stop. You're doing it again.
Overthinking. Always overthinking.
The hallway air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and something muskier—like sweat and bad decisions.
My neighbor stepped out of his apartment at the same time as me, a woman in tow. Her dress clung to her like it was painted on, barely covering what it needed to.
She adjusted her top, unfazed, as if this was just another Tuesday.
How many minutes did he last today?
Four. That's a breaking record.
The thought flickered, unbidden. I pushed it away. Not my business. Not my place to judge.
He nodded at me, that lazy, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. I nodded back, polite but distant, and hurried toward the elevator. The woman followed, her heels clicking sharply against the ground.
Inside the elevator, she pulled out a wad of cash, thumbing through the bills with practiced ease.
So that's what she does for a living.
At least her transactions were honest. No pretending. She got paid to be wanted. I got paid to be invisible.
The doors slid open. I stepped out without a backward glance.
****
The office was its usual hive of muted chaos. My small, glass-walled manager's office might as well have been a fishbowl—visible but insignificant.
I settled into my chair, my fingers tapping absently against the desk. Outside, the team buzzed with energy, but none of it was directed at me. No, all eyes were on him.
Dickson.
Senior Manager. Golden Boy. My boyfriend.
The irony was almost funny. I was the one who'd drafted the proposals that got him promoted. I was the one who stayed up late refining strategies, only to hand them over like offerings at his altar. And when he'd been given the power to appoint a new manager, he'd chosen me.
Officially, we were nothing. Just colleagues. And that was the way it had to be. Because if they found out?
"Oh, so that's how she got the job."
They will think I'd slept my way up. Or worse.
Never mind the hours I'd poured into this place. Never mind the ideas that I had planted in Daniel's head, only for him to present them as his own.
I do it out of love.
At least, that's what I told myself. Seeing Dicksonhappy should me happy. That's how love works, right? Sacrifice. Compromise. Swallowing your pride so the person you care about can shine.
But sometimes, in the quietest moments, I wondered: When does love become self-destruction?
A sharp rap on my office door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Hey, superstar."
Mira. My work bestie—if I even allowed myself to call someone that. The only person in this entire building who knew the truth about Dickson and me.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her signature smirk in place. Mira was everything I wasn't—bold, unapologetic, the kind of woman who wore her ambition like armor. And yet, for some reason, she tolerated me.
"You coming to the grand opening or what?" she asked, stepping inside and dropping into the chair across from me.
I don't know," I murmured, tapping my pen against the desk. "Dickson's the face of the project. It's better if I—"
"Better for who?" Mira cut in, rolling her eyes. "Eleanor, you designed that death trap. You should be the one on that stage, not him."
I flinched. She wasn't wrong. But it wasn't that simple.
"I don't want any issues in my relationship," I said softly, avoiding her gaze.
Mira scoffed. "What relationship? The one where you do all the work and he takes all the credit?"
The words stung because they were true. But I couldn't explain it—not even to Mira. How do you articulate the fear that if you stop giving, you'll stop being loved?
She sighed, leaning forward. "Look, I get it. You're playing the long game or whatever. But you have to come. The CEOs are attending. All three of them. You know no one's ever seen them in person, right?"
This might be the first and last time I ever see them.
The thought flickered through my mind like a spark before catching fire. The Vexxon CEOs—legends, ghosts, the most powerful men no one had ever truly seen. If I was going to witness history, I couldn't miss it.
Mira's grin when I told her I'd attend was almost blinding. "Finally," she'd said, clapping her hands. "And for the love of God, Eleanor, don't dress like an old woman."
I'd rolled my eyes but smiled. Maybe this would be different.
****
Now, sitting in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, I let myself bask in the rare moment of anticipation. it all felt like a dream.
Dickson had texted me out of the blue. "Meet me here. 7 PM." No explanation. Just an address and a command.
But I didn't mind. It had been months since he'd taken me anywhere. He'd always said we had to be careful—no one at work could know about us. And I'd understood. I'd always understood.
This is my reward, I thought, smoothing my dress. He's finally making time for me.
After three heartbreaks, I'd convinced myself love wasn't for me. But Dickson had changed that. He was different. Or so I'd believed.
The restaurant door opened, and there he was—tall, polished, holding a bouquet of red roses.
My smile faltered for half a second. Red.I'd always preferred white. He knows that. I have mentioned it more than 10 times. But maybe they'd run out. It was the thought that counted, right?
"Eleanor," he said, sliding into the seat across from me. His voice was smooth, practiced. "Have you ordered anything?"
"Not yet. I was waiting for you."
"Better order. You'll need it."
A flutter of unease prickled at the back of my neck. Need it?
He flagged down the waiter, ordered a bottle of wine I knew cost more than my rent, and then turned to me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Is this it? My heart raced. Is he going to finally—
"I'm getting married this weekend."
The words hung in the air, sharp and final.
I blinked. What?
"So we have to break up."