Nadia's Point Of View
The plastic keys beneath my fingers endured the absolute beating of a lifetime. Clack, clack, tap, smash. I typed so aggressively that I half-expected the cheap keyboard to split down the middle, my manicured nails clicking against the plastic like a swarm of angry locusts.
Each strike felt like a small rebellion against my circumstances, a tiny act of violence I could control. The rhythm became almost meditative in its fury… a percussion of frustration that no one else in the office seemed to notice or care about.
"I completely, entirely, with every fiber of my being, hate this godforsaken job," I muttered under my breath, my voice laced with venom that could have melted the desk.
