I’ve been erased before. Exes, friends, my high school chemistry teacher who claimed I never handed in a single assignment... I know the feeling. But there’s something uniquely gut-wrenching about being deleted digitally. Like the ghost of you is gone before your coffee even brews.
I noticed it the second I walked into the glassy hellscape they called headquarters. My name wasn’t on the directory screen anymore. The touchscreen in the lobby... where you could find anyone from the CEO to the janitor... flashed brightly when I typed "Scarlett Farnsworth" and then returned a chirpy little message that might as well have said Who’s she? Never heard of her.
No nameplate on my office door either. In fact, no office. Just a cleaned-out desk with an empty mug and a chair that still remembered my
