"Speak."
I opened my mouth and just... started talking.
It wasn't my best work — not even close. I strung together scraps of my proposal from memory: a few points about client engagement, a vague mention of restructuring outreach. My voice trembled, each word heavier than the last.
Mr. Andrews didn't interrupt. He just watched, face unreadable, pen tapping slowly against the table. Every second stretched. When I finished, he gave a small nod — a quiet verdict.
"Too broad," he said. "Needs clarity."
Then he turned to the next person.
That was it. No explosion. No insult. Just dismissal — clean, cold, final.
I walked back to my seat, heart pounding in my ears. Joshua stood next, smooth as ever — confident, prepared. His slides glowed on the wall, neat lines of data and polished buzzwords.
When he finished, Mr. Andrews gave another short nod. "Good. Structured."
Then, without looking at me, he added, "That's what I meant."
I stared down at my folder. My niece's crayon drawing smiled up at me from the corner — a bright yellow sun, oblivious to everything.
The meeting ended. Chairs scraped, people murmured, papers shuffled. I stayed seated until the room was almost empty. My hands still shook when I packed up. For a moment, I thought of walking out and never looking back — but instead, I smiled at whoever glanced my way, pretending everything was fine.
---
HR called that afternoon.
The walk there felt longer than it should. The lights seemed too bright, the carpet too soft, the air too still.
"Emily, thank you for your contribution during the internship," said Mrs. Lang as I stepped in. Her tone was polite, practiced — the kind that ends things gently. "You've been great to work with, but we won't be offering a retention at this time."
I nodded. "I understand."
"Please don't be discouraged. You've got potential."
"Thank you."
The words tasted hollow.
Back at my desk, I packed my few things — a mug, a photo, a notebook. Across the room, Joshua was shaking hands with someone from management. He didn't even glance my way.
Maybe I wasn't jealous. Maybe I was. But mostly, I just wanted to leave.
When I stepped outside, the city hit me all at once — noise, wind, headlights. Everything moved too fast.
---
Normally, I'd take the long route home. But that night, I was too drained to care. My head was heavy, thoughts fogged.
So I turned down a shortcut — a narrow back lane behind a row of shops and apartments. Darker. Quieter.
Halfway through, I heard them. Voices. Low. Male.
The words were broken by distance — fragments of a conversation I wasn't meant to hear.
"…he said it's done."
"…you sure?"
"…no witnesses."
I froze.
Instinct said keep walking. Curiosity said listen.
I edged closer, hiding behind a dented trash bin. My heart drummed against my ribs. The smell of old smoke and wet concrete filled the air. A chill crawled down my spine.
Then one of them turned — eyes scanning the alley.
And found me.
"Hey!"
I didn't think. I just ran.
My shoes slammed against the pavement, echoes chasing me down the alley. I didn't look back. Just the sound of footsteps behind me — faster, closer — and my own breath ripping through the cold night.