By Friday morning, Ronda was tired of adjusting beautifully.
That was the phrase that came to her while she stood in front of the mirror, tying her scarf with fingers that felt more exhausted than the hour deserved.
Adjusting beautifully.
What an ugly, polished way to suffer.
All week, she had moved through Unit Four with discipline. She had learned the pace, followed instructions, sorted files, answered cleanly, and made herself useful without once giving anyone the satisfaction of calling her difficult.
And still, every evening, she went home with the same quiet resentment sitting in her chest.
Not because the work was beneath her.
Not because the people were unkind.
Because none of it had been hers to choose.
She had been surviving the room well.
That was exactly the problem.
