Chapter 2 -- Dreams Interrupted
975 Words
The weekend passed faster than I wanted.
Monday arrived again — bringing the familiar weight of expectation and silent tension.
Another day at the office.
The routine had become mechanical “ smile when required, speak only when necessary, deliver results”
Leave.
Another day of pretending everything was normal.
I arrived earlier than most employees.
The sun had barely risen, and the company building reflected the pale morning light across its glass surface.
I preferred coming early.
Fewer people.
Fewer conversations.
Fewer chances to attract unnecessary attention.
If invisibility were measured as a professional skill, I would probably rank high.
The security guard gave me a brief nod as I entered. My footsteps echoed softly through the lobby, each step deliberate — controlled — as if noise alone could draw scrutiny.
“ How the building looks impressive from outside”
But how it feels different inside.
Inside, the office lights flickered before settling into their usual steady glow.
The air smelled faintly of printer ink, polished desks, and artificial cleanliness.
Everything looked organized.
Everything looked professional.
Everything looked calm.
Except the atmosphere never matched the appearance.
I slipped quietly to my desk, placing my bag down carefully as though movement itself required permission.
I aligned my files.
Adjusted the edges.
Straightened the keyboard.
Control what you can, I reminded myself.
Because control in this office is limited.
Even if it’s only paper and plastic.
I opened my computer and began reviewing reports from the previous week.
Sales metrics.
Performance tracking.
Revenue summaries.
I scanned every line carefully, checking calculations, validating figures, ensuring accuracy.
Mistakes in data analysis could escalate quickly.
A small error could turn into a major accusation.
In this environment, precision was protection.
For the first hour, the office remained peaceful.
Colleagues arrived gradually.
Soft greetings.
Quiet laughter.
Small talk about traffic and coffee.
No one approached my desk.
No one greeted me.
I was invisible — and used to it.
I glanced toward Liliana’s office.
Her door remained closed.
The light inside was off.
A brief breath escaped me before I could stop it.
She wasn’t here yet.
Relief washed over me — subtle but real.
Even temporary silence from her felt like a gift.
I returned my attention to the spreadsheet.
As numbers filled the screen, my thoughts drifted despite my efforts to stay focused.
My mind wandered.
Slowly.
Unintentionally.
The rhythm of typing faded, replaced by memory.
My thoughts moved to my parents.
To home.
To a place where love did not depend on performance.
Growing up, we didn’t have luxury.
Our house was modest.
Our finances were limited.
But the environment was safe.
My father’s laughter echoed in my memory — loud, warm, and reassuring.
Dusty yard, cracked pavement, warm evenings.
He would call me outside during evenings, turning small moments into adventures.
To outsiders, our life might have looked like a struggle.
To me, it felt like belonging.
My mother used to sit beside me during late nights, guiding me through assignments under dim light.
“How her hands smelled like soap and flour.
She never questioned my ability.
Never compared me to others.
Never made me feel small.
She believed in me.
That belief became my foundation.
A quiet strength tightened in my chest.
That kind of love did not exist here.
Not in this office.
Not in these corridors.
Not under the authority of people who measured worth through status.
My chest rose slowly as I inhaled.
The breath trembled slightly before leaving my lungs.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine something different.
A future where I stood at the top — not for power alone, but influence.
A future where decisions I made shaped environments positively.
Where employees were treated as contributors, not liabilities.
If I ever led a company, I would remember this experience.
I would remember how it felt to sit quietly at a desk and feel insignificant.
Give mentorship
I would remember the humiliation disguised as feedback.
And I would never replicate it.
A faint smile touched my lips.
Soft.
Almost fragile.
I imagined love too.
Not transactional.
Not conditional.
Not dependent on titles or financial status.
But partnership.
Someone who saw my effort.
Someone who respected my ambition.
Someone who understood my silence without forcing explanation.
For a moment, I felt light.
Safe inside my own thoughts.
In that imagination, I feared nothing.
Except interruption.
And interruption came suddenly.
A sharp vibration broke through the quiet.
My phone slid slightly across the desk from the force of the notification.
My heart reacted instantly.
I froze.
Staring at the screen.
Another vibration followed.
My stomach tightened.
Slowly, I reached for it.
The notification banner appeared.
Liliana.
My breathing shifted.
The peaceful bubble I had created burst immediately.
I unlocked the phone.
The message was short.
Direct.
Commanding.
“Courtney! My office now.”
No greeting.
No explanation.
No context.
Just authority.
My pulse accelerated.
My fingers tightened around the device for a second before I lowered it onto the desk.
Around me, colleagues continued working normally — unaware that my internal environment had shifted completely.
I straightened my posture.
Adjusted my blouse.
Smoothed invisible wrinkles from my sleeves.
This was not the first time she summoned me abruptly.
It would not be the last.
Still — every time — it triggered the same tension.
I inhaled slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then I stood.
And walked toward her office.
I paused just outside the door.
For a split second, I considered what this might be about.
Had I embarrassed her?
Had I failed in some invisible way again?
Or was this something worse?
My hand lifted toward the door.
Hovered.
Then steadied.
Whatever waited behind that door would not be gentle.
And somehow—
I had the unsettling feeling that this conversation would change something.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But permanently.
- Writer
