For seven long years, I drifted through a company where, to anyone peering in from the outside, it looked as though I had everything one could want. A decent title, a reliable pay packet in sterling, all the perks, and working hours that made most acquaintances green with envy. When people asked after me, I always echoed the same words: Im alright, just busy with work. No one suspected anything odd. I never said a word otherwise.
Each morning, I floated through the office doors at eight oclock, and more often than not, I wouldnt reappear on the street until after seven, when London was already dripping with mist. It wasnt a rule imposed by others, but each day something urgent would sprout uplast minute emails as the sun went down, sudden meetings materializing out of nowhere, or phone calls puncturing my weekends like rain on glass. Bit by bit, peaceful lunches became a faded memory. Meeting friends was a dream half-remembered. Time for myself seeped away as if down a forgotten plughole. My whole world seemed painted in corporate blue.
My manager, Mr. Stanley, leaned upon me as if I were the last lamppost on the lane, but what began as trust slowly pressed down like a granite slab. If anything skewed sideways, Id be the one to set it right. When someone was missing, Id slip into their place. If blunders happened, the blame would perch quietly on my shoulders. No never passed my lips. My list of duties ballooned until it filled the whole office, while neither my salary nor my job title shifted an inch.
My body began to fray around the edges. Persistent headaches, nights with sleep as rare as sunshine on a January morning, heart palpitations like thunder behind my ribs. Waking up for work sent a shiver of dread through me, as though the bed might swallow me whole. I wept silently in the office loo, unsure of what for. Still, I soldiered on. The notion of leaving seemed mad, ungratefuleven defeat.
Then, during a meeting that blurred at the seams, Mr. Stanley revealed a project on which Id toiled, month after shaded month. He spoke as if the idea had been born from his own dreams. My name drifted untetheredunmentioned, unseen.
Before the week had unclasped its hands, I handed in my resignation. I didnt bargain. I didnt ask for more. I simply walked out.
Whispers and raised brows whirled around me: Youre being ridiculous, Youll never find better, That job sorted your life out. My family gazed on, baffled. Friends tilted their heads, suspecting some madness. No one saw the exhaustion running like ink beneath my skinthey only saw the title.
Nowadays, my work isnt stitched with gold thread. But I sleep. I exhale. I wake up alive, not already lost. For the first time, Im not vanishing, trying to fold myself into someone elses suit of expectations.
