I spent the whole day staring at the file.
It sat on the edge of my bed like something alive—thick, heavy, its corners digging into the softness of my sheets. I moved it from the bedside table to my lap. From my lap to the chair. From the chair back to the bed.
I never opened it.
I kept asking myself the same question, over and over, as if repetition could force clarity.
Is this what I need?
The truth was—I wasn't in the right headspace. I knew that much. I could admit it, at least in the privacy of my own mind. I was tired in a way sleep couldn't fix. My chest still felt bruised from the night before—from Victor's words, from my reaction to them.
I didn't trust my judgment.
And this wasn't something I could afford to ruin.
Working at the company had once been my dream. A real one. Not a childish fantasy or a passing thought. It was something I carried quietly, fiercely—like a secret prayer.
