Paper Trails
Isabella’s knuckles whitened around her coffee mug, the ceramic biting into her palms as if it might crack under the pressure. The office air conditioning hummed like a swarm of wasps trapped in the walls, but sweat still prickled the back of her neck, dampening the collar of her blouse. Last night’s disaster with Adrian clung to her skin—the memory of his hands hovering inches from her waist, the raw ache of *nothing* where his touch should have been. She pressed her thumb into the chipped engraving on the mug—“World’s Best Boss”—a relic from Mia’s thrift store phase. The irony wasn’t lost on her. *Focus. Focus.*
Across the cubicle farm, Sophie Langford’s laugh cut through the sterile silence, sharp as shattered glass.
“—*literally* died when I saw the Balenciaga knock
