Most people start their mornings with a quick shower and a rushed cup of coffee.
Some even manage a jog or a gym session before sunrise.
Not me. Not today.
I woke up in a dark room with a pounding headache — the kind that feels like it's splitting your skull from the inside. The air was cold and still. The only light came from a faint spill of starlight sneaking through the half-closed blinds.
For a few seconds, I just lay there, trying to piece together where I was and how I'd gotten here. My memories came in fragments — blurred, slippery. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
But before this, there was yesterday.
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I remember jolting awake, heart racing, when I realized I'd slept through my alarm.
I was already late — not just for any meeting, but the meeting. The one that would decide if I stayed on as an intern or finally got retained.
And I needed that job more than I cared to admit.
I barely brushed my hair before rushing out, balancing a hot cup of coffee and an overloaded folder as I weaved through the chaos of New York traffic. I reached the office just in time — one more red light and I would've been late.
Joshua, another intern, passed by with his usual smug grin. He had that look — the kind that says, I'm already winning.
I smiled back tightly, wishing, just for a second, that I could wipe that look off his face.
The meeting room was already half-full. I slipped quietly to my usual spot at the far end of the table, exhaling hard. I'm Emily Hartwell, I reminded myself. You've worked for this moment. Don't fall apart now.
I flipped open my folder to review my notes one last time — just as Mr. Andrews walked in.
Everyone stood. Then sat.
He took his seat at the head of the table, his expression already locked in that familiar scowl. I've never seen him smile — not even when the company hit record profits. It's like he wakes up angry and spends the rest of the day proving it.
The meeting began.
He asked for new ideas, new strategies — fresh thinking. My pulse quickened. I had something good, something that could prove I wasn't just another intern taking up space.
The others went first, and Mr. Andrews cut through each presentation with clipped remarks:
"Get to the point."
"Makes no sense."
"Next."
Every word felt like a blade scraping down my spine.
"Breathe, Emily," I whispered to myself. "Don't let him see you shake."
My knuckles throbbed from gripping the folder. The air in the room felt too still, too loud — the faint hum of the air conditioner, the soft clicks of pens, the scrape of a chair leg. Every sound felt magnified.
Then it happened.
"Miss Hartwell."
My name — sharp and cold — sliced through the silence.
I stood, forcing my legs not to tremble, and walked to the front of the room. My palms were slick with sweat. Mr. Andrews' eyes followed me the whole way — that same, unblinking stare that made even senior staff lose their words.
I placed the folder on the stand and took a deep breath.
You've got this. Focus on the plan. Speak clearly. Breathe.
I opened it.
And froze.
Color. Everywhere. Crayon swirls, clumsy and bright. A crooked house. A yellow sun with too many rays. A stick figure in a blue dress holding hands with a taller one.
My throat went dry.
Oh God. These weren't my notes.
They were my niece's drawings.
Her laughter echoed in my head, her little voice teasing: "Auntie, your work is too serious. Take mine instead — they'll like it better."
No. No, no, no.
My heart pounded against my ribs. My entire presentation — hours of work — gone. Replaced by a six-year-old's imagination.
I could feel Mr. Andrews' gaze tightening, his patience thinning by the second.
I wanted to vanish — crawl under the table, rewind time, wake up somewhere else.
But I couldn't. I needed this job. For my sister, who worked double shifts to keep the lights on. For my niece, who drew those pictures on the kitchen table beside me. For my mother, who always came back broke after chasing the next dream.
If I failed here, we all sank a little deeper.
Think, Emily. Say something. Do something.
But no words came — just the deafening silence of panic.
Then his voice cut through it — low, deliberate, and dangerous.
"Enough waiting," Mr. Andrews said, eyes narrowing. "Speak."