The afternoon light
slanted through the
blinds, cutting the desk
into stripes. She stared
at her inbox the way you
stare at a door you know
you have to open but
wish would just stay
shut.
Forty-seven unread. The
number had a weight to
it, like a stone placed
gently on the chest.
She closed the laptop.
Not to avoid it — just
to let the room breathe
for a second. The hum
of the office air
conditioning filled the
gap.
She thought:
maybe the doubt isn't about whether I can do this. Maybe it's about whether I want to keep proving I can.
She opened the laptop
again. One email at a
time. Not because she
was ready. Because the
alternative was sitting
here until the light
moved.