Amara.
I can't concentrate.
It's been three hours since I fled his office, and I've accomplished nothing.
The spreadsheet on my screen might as well be written in ancient Greek and I wouldn't notice.
Every number blurs together, every alphabet looks the same, and my hands are still shaking too badly to type with any accuracy.
I've reread the same email four times and still have no idea what it says.
Every sound from his office makes me jump. The soft murmur of phone calls, the click of his keyboard, the whisper of his chair as he moves—I'm tuned to his frequency like a radio that can't change stations.
This is insane. I'm a grown woman with a master's degree and five years of professional experience. I should not be falling apart because my super hot boss almost touched my throat
