The fluorescent light
above her desk hums a
low, steady note. She
stares at the
spreadsheet, numbers
blurring into a gray
smear. Her coffee has
gone cold, a skin
forming on the surface.
She taps her pen against
the edge of the keyboard—
click, click, click—a
rhythm that matches her
pulse. Across the cubicle
row, a coworker laughs
too loudly at a joke she
didn't hear. She glances
at the clock: 4:47 PM.
The email she sent three
hours ago sits unread, a
small blue checkmark
mocking her. She types a
new sentence, deletes
it, types again. Her
fingers tremble slightly.
She stands up, walks to
the window, and presses
her palm against the cold
glass. The city below
moves in slow,
indifferent circles. She
returns to her chair and
opens a new document,
leaving it blank.