It was already past noon, and I was still imprisoned in my beige-colored cabin... a color so uninspiring it should be illegal under the Geneva Convention.
I had been staring at my laptop screen like it was a traitorous ex who ghosted me after making me believe we were soulmates.
The spreadsheet on the screen was blinking, taunting me with its cursed columns and judgmental fonts. Specifically, Column C. Column C was my nemesis. Column C had seen too much.
My to-do list wasn't a list anymore. It was a novel. A tragic, soul-draining Greek epic with no ending in sight.
I leaned back in my ergonomic torture chair and stared blankly at the ceiling tiles, wondering about all the life choices that brought me here.
This was not the dream. I was supposed to be living in Paris, sipping lattes in a penthouse suite while my model boyfriend massaged my feet.
Instead, I was here. With spreadsheet-induced eye strain and a growing desire to throw my laptop out the window.
Suddenly, like an angel descending from heaven, a notification popped up on my phone.
High School Reunion Tonight @ 6 PM - Don't be late! Let's make it nostalgic 💕
Ugh. That again.
I groaned like a cursed crypt keeper. The reunion. The event where everyone pretended to be successful while secretly checking who got fat, who got rich, who got divorced, and who was still clinging to their high school crush like a love-struck koala.
Spoiler alert: That last one was me.
Yes, I'll admit it. A small part of me wanted to go.
Okay, a large part.
Fine, 97.3% of me wanted to see if Haneul, my short ex with god-tier cheekbones and a dumb laugh, still looked like someone who belonged in a K-pop MV or if karma had finally caught up and turned him into a bald insurance agent.
But alas. The real boss battle wasn't Haneul.
It was… Mr. Jeon Jaehyuk.
The corporate Grim Reaper. The HR-slaying, leave-denying, emotionless demon in Dior.
My boss.
Asking Mr. Jeon for a half-day leave was like asking a dragon if you could borrow his flame to toast a marshmallow.
No one in the company dared ask him for leave unless they had a medically verified reason or were actively giving birth in the hallway.
People who asked him for leave either ended up sobbing in the bathroom or completely vanishing like they were snapped by Thanos.
Still, I had to try. It was a risk I was willing to take. For petty revenge. For emotional closure. For Haneul to see that I'm now the main character.
I glanced at the clock: 12:43 PM.
If I left by 1:00, I could reach home, change into something that screamed "I'm not emotionally unstable," and make it to the venue in time to pretend I totally wasn't stalking my ex. Perfect.
Step One: Ask the Dark Lord for permission.
I took a deep breath, whispered a silent prayer to all the office gods, my ancestors, the ghost who haunted the supply closet, and my lucky paperclip named Fernando. Then, I rose like a warrior heading into battle. Or like someone about to step into a puddle and pretend it's a spiritual cleansing ritual.
I approached the door to his office—the infamous Room of Doom.
I knocked. Lightly. Gently. Like a squirrel politely asking to borrow a walnut.
Clink!
A tiny, elegant bell chimed from inside. That was his custom-built, gold-plated approval system — which I called the Bell of Judgment. The sound meant "Enter." Or possibly "Enter and perish."
I opened the door slowly, like it was the gateway to hell. It probably was.
There he was...
Mr. Jeon.
He was seated at his desk like a Bond villain, typing with the precision of a sniper.
Not a single strand of his hair was out of place. His suit probably cost more than my entire college degree.
I swear the temperature in the room dropped by five degrees the moment I stepped in.
"Mr. Jeon?" I squeaked. My voice cracked like a broken recorder.
He didn't even look up.
"Yes?" he said, voice smooth but deadlier than cyanide in a champagne glass.
Okay. Showtime.
I straightened my back, took another breath, and said the words I'd been practicing in my head since breakfast:
"Sir, I'd like to request for a half-day leave today."
Silence.
His fingers stopped typing.
Without reacting, he calmly reached into his drawer.
No. No, no, no.
Not. The. Drawer.
That drawer was cursed.
Everyone knew about the Drawer.
That drawer only had two things: a Montblanc gold-plated fountain pen and pre-printed termination letters.
I watched, horrified, as he pulled out a folder.
My soul began writing its last will and testament.
He flipped through the papers inside, slow and deliberate. Like he was choosing which format of corporate murder to apply.
My heart was breakdancing inside my ribcage.
"Reason?" he asked, still flipping papers like I was on trial.
My brain started buffering. My mouth opened, but words? None. Panic dialed its emergency hotline.
Oh god.
I hadn't prepared a reason. Mira, you dumb waffle. You knew you'd need a reason!
Think, Mira. THINK.
Suddenly, my imaginary halo lit up.
"My grandma!" I blurted out.
He finally looked up. LOOKED UP. First time in months. His gaze? Lethal. Like lasers wrapped in ice. I smiled nervously, already mentally lighting a candle for myself.
"She's… sick." I added. Lame.
My grandma's been dead since 2012.
"She has been hospitalized," I continued, turning up the drama.
"Back in my hometown. I need to go see her."
He stared at me like he was searching for signs of lying on my forehead. I clenched every muscle in my face to look innocent.
Angelic.
Granddaughter-of-the-year.
Two excruciating minutes passed.
Silence.
He turned his attention back to his laptop and typed something with the grace of a murder suspect writing an alibi.
"Fine," he said.
I blinked. Did I hear that right?
"But you'll work overtime tomorrow."
I blinked.
Was that… yes? Was that an actual yes?!?
I resisted the urge to sob out of joy. This was like finding out I had stage 4 employment anxiety but the doctor said it's just mild burnout.
He was already back to typing. Conversation over.
I wanted to scream, cry, and twerk on the table. But instead, I just nodded like a calm, composed professional and whispered, "Thank you, sir,"
Then I turned.
And ran.
Well, I walked quickly. But inside, I was sprinting. Dancing. Screaming.
I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, and let out a slow, silent cheer.
I. HAD. DONE. IT.
I had survived the beast.
I had conquered the demon.
I had successfully lied about a non-existent grandmother to the most terrifying man in Seoul and lived to tell the tale.
Once I was far enough down the hallway, I did a full-blown happy dance. Not just a wiggle. I'm talking interpretive dance, jazz hands, and air punches. I almost broke into a cartwheel before I remembered I hadn't stretched in three years.
I was free. I was victorious.
I was going to that reunion.
Let the stalking of my ex and awkward buffet conversations begin.