The silence inside the truck was absolute, a stark contrast to the internal screaming echoing in the chambers of my brain. I was still leaning against the headrest, my eyes pressed shut so tightly I saw bursts of static behind my eyelids. I was trying to steady my breathing, but every lungful of air felt like it was being filtered through a thick layer of guilt. My navy suit, the one my mother had practically picked out for my "debut" into her corporate circle tonight, felt like a straightjacket. The silk lining, usually a sign of comfort and status, rubbed against my skin like sandpaper.
I was a Business Economics major. I understood the cold, hard mathematics of life. I understood the concept of sunk costs—the idea that once you’ve invested time, money, or effort into something that is
