She submitted the report
at 11:58 PM and
immediately wanted to take
it back.
It wasn't perfect. She
knew that. There was a
paragraph she'd rewritten
six times and still
hated. A chart that felt
slightly off. A
conclusion that worked but
didn't
sing.
Her manager would read it
in the morning with
coffee. He wouldn't
notice the paragraph. He
wouldn't know about the
six drafts, the deleted
versions, the hour she
spent staring at the
chart wondering if the
colors were wrong. He
would just read it, nod
once, and move on with
his day.
But she would know.
She always knew.
Her coworker leaned over
the partition at lunch.
"Hey, great work on the
Q2 numbers. Really
clear."
She smiled and said thank
you. She did not say:
I almost scrapped the whole thing at midnight. I almost quit. I almost decided I wasn't cut out for this.
Some doubts are too heavy
to wear in public.
So she keeps them folded
in her chest, neat and
small, like a note she
can't throw away.