The transfer notice arrived quietly.
There was no meeting.No conversation.Not even a single extra word of explanation.
At 10:27 a.m. that morning, Ye Qing was revising a supplementary explanation for a merger when a system notification popped up in the lower right corner of her email inbox—
"Project Personnel Adjustment Notice."
The sender was Human Resources and Administration.The CC list was long—long enough to make the email look impeccably official, procedurally flawless, beyond reproach.
She clicked it open.
The body contained only three lines:
Due to adjustments in the project phase, and following management discussion and decision:
Effective immediately, Ye Qing will no longer participate in the A-17 core merger project and will be reassigned to the B-09 project support group.
All original responsibilities are to be transferred with immediate effect.
The cursor blinked once on the screen.
Ye Qing stared at the words "A-17."Her fingertips suddenly felt cold.
A-17 was one of Chuji Group's most important merger projects this year.
It was also the project she had poured almost all of her energy into since joining the company.
She remembered the first time she was called into that project's conference room—how fast her heart had been beating.She remembered staying up late to verify financial models, still sending supplementary notes to Huang Chujiu at two in the morning.She remembered the business trip to Nancheng, how she had matched Huang Chujiu's rhythm almost step for step.
And now, all of it was ended by a single email.
"Effective immediately, no longer participating."
She did not reply right away.
She reread the notice several times, making sure she hadn't misunderstood anything.
Then, slowly, she opened the A-17 project folder.
Her access was still there.
But she no longer belonged to it.
She truly understood the weight of being "transferred" through others.
At noon, while getting water in the pantry, she heard two colleagues from another project group speaking in low voices.
"Did you hear A-17 changed personnel?"
"Yeah. Huang personally made the call."
"Wasn't Assistant Ye following it the whole time?"
"Maybe… too close."
The words were light, almost casual.Yet they pierced her ear like a needle, without warning.
Her hand holding the cup paused for a brief second, then steadied.She turned and walked away.
No one noticed her.
She returned to her desk, set the cup down, and sat properly.
The document on her screen remained on a page she knew by heart, but the sense that this is my work suddenly vanished.
At 2 p.m., the project handover began.
The process was standard.
The new person taking over was a senior manager from the finance department, polite, even slightly cautious.
"Assistant Ye, you've worked hard these past weeks."
"We'll get familiar with the materials as soon as possible. You don't need to worry."
You don't need to worry.
Those four words left Ye Qing unsure how to respond.
She handed over the materials one by one, explaining the logic, marking risk points.Her tone was calm—so calm that even she found it unfamiliar.
She didn't ask for a reason.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she knew too well that in such a "graceful adjustment," the reason itself was the one thing never meant to be spoken aloud.
After the handover, she returned to her desk.
It was unusually clean.
The folder labeled A-17 was dragged—by her own hand—into Archived.
She stared at the icon for a long time before finally looking away.
The B-09 project was a support project.
No decision-making power.No core meetings.Mostly supplementary documents, procedural follow-ups, repetitive checks.
Not exactly easy.
But certainly not important.
She sat in the new project area. Everyone around her was busy, but it was a kind of busyness driven more by inertia than urgency.
No one called her name in meetings anymore.No one needed her to salvage critical nodes at the last minute.No one waited for her confirmation email late at night.
She had become replaceable.
When it was time to get off work, she didn't leave right away.
She sat at her desk, repeatedly reviewing a document that wasn't even urgent.
Until the assistant area gradually emptied and only a few scattered lights remained.
Only then did she realize—
She was procrastinating.
She didn't know where to go.
She didn't want to return to her apartment.She didn't want to face a night that suddenly felt hollow.
She got up and went to the restroom.
In the mirror, her makeup was intact. Her expression calm. Nothing looked out of place.
Only she knew that the calmness was forcibly maintained.
She washed her hands, looked up—
And saw another person in the mirror.
Lin Ze stood at the doorway.
"You haven't left yet?"
She nodded. "Soon."
He looked at her, silent for a few seconds, choosing his words carefully.
"This adjustment… isn't your fault."
Ye Qing smiled lightly. "I know."
"You know?" Lin Ze froze.
"If it were a work issue, it wouldn't be handled like this." Her voice was soft but unusually certain. "This is the most graceful way."
Lin Ze opened his mouth, then said nothing.
Because she was right.
Grace often means—
There is no room for rebuttal.
That night, Ye Qing experienced insomnia for the first time.
She lay in bed, lights off, the room quiet enough to hear her own breathing.
She didn't cry.She didn't toss and turn.
She simply stared into the darkness.
The email replayed in her mind again and again.
Not anger.
But a slow, sinking sense of weightlessness.
She finally realized something clearly—
What she lost wasn't just a project.
It was the position she had only just managed to stand firmly in.
The B-09 project did not need Ye Qing.
This became her clearest—and cruelest—realization on the third day after the transfer.
Messages in the project group kept flowing, tagging one another, but her name appeared rarely.The tasks assigned to her were procedural, peripheral—organizing old files, verifying historical contracts, filling out explanations using templates that had been reused countless times.
As long as nothing went wrong, it was fine.
Standing out had no value.
She quickly realized the project wasn't short of manpower.
She had simply been placed there.
Like an item temporarily without a suitable position, set in a corner where it wouldn't get in the way.
She still arrived early.
Still organized every document meticulously.
Still showed up thirty minutes early for meetings, sitting in a corner, opening her laptop, waiting for a chance to speak that might never come.
But she became increasingly clear—
Effort here was silent.
On the fourth day's regular project meeting, the lead said during the summary:
"This part can follow the previous version. No need for further optimization."
Ye Qing's fingers paused on the keyboard.
She had prepared a new logic framework to minimize risks.She had even calculated fallback plans for three extreme scenarios.
But no one asked.
She looked up at the people across the table.
No one's gaze rested on her.
For the first time, she did not raise her hand.
After the meeting, she closed her laptop and stayed seated.
A voice inside her asked:
If you don't speak, will anyone really notice that you prepared?
The answer was no.
She saved the proposal into a folder and named it:
Unused.
True exhaustion isn't caused by busyness.
It's caused by—
Having strength left, but being told you don't need to use it.
She began to feel a dull fatigue after work.
Not physical exhaustion, but mental.
She would stand at a subway exit, suddenly unsure which way to go.She would stare at rows of drinks in a convenience store for a long time.She would return to her apartment, sit on the sofa, and hesitate to turn on the lights.
She stopped writing in her notebook.
Not because she had nothing to write.
But because she suddenly didn't know who she was writing for.
On the fifth day, she heard her name again in the pantry.
"Is Assistant Ye sidelined into a marginal project now?"
"Probably. Haven't seen her with Huang lately."
"To be honest, she's capable. Her position was just a bit sensitive."
"Normal. Someone like Huang wouldn't leave risk near himself."
The water in her cup had already gone cold.
She stood there for a few seconds, then turned away.
No rebuttal.
No grievance.
Just a moment of clear realization—
In others' eyes, her transfer had already been rationalized.
Not because she wasn't good enough.
But because she was unsuitable.
What hurt her most was Huang Chujiu.
He truly, completely disappeared.
Not from the company.
But from her world.
She no longer received forwarded emails from him.No longer got summoned to meeting rooms at short notice.Even when they passed each other in the hallway, there was only a brief nod—his gaze no longer lingered.
That kind of avoidance was clearer than coldness.
She finally confirmed one thing—
He wasn't busy.
He was deliberately avoiding her.
She didn't ask.
Because she no longer knew in what capacity she could.
Assistant?She was no longer a core assistant.
Subordinate?He had no obligation to explain personnel decisions.
For the first time, she truly felt what "boundaries" meant.
It wasn't a sentence.
It was an invisible wall.
She stood on this side of it, could see the door—
But could no longer touch the handle.
Friday night, there was a departmental social gathering.
She hadn't planned to attend.
But the B-09 project lead tagged everyone in the group chat:
"Everyone come by. Consider it project familiarization."
She went.
The private room was lively. Bright lights. Laughter everywhere.
She sat in a corner, holding a glass of juice, listening.
People talked about promotions.About job-hopping.About which project was gaining momentum.
A-17 was mentioned more than once.
She lowered her head, watching the ice cubes slowly melt.
Someone noticed her and smiled.
"Ye Qing, weren't you following A-17 before? How does the new project feel?"
The tone was natural.
As if it were genuine concern.
She looked up and smiled. "Still adapting."
"Support projects are good. Less pressure." The person nodded. "Actually quite suitable for women."
The words sounded unintentional.
Yet they landed precisely on her chest.
She said nothing more.
She finished the juice, set the glass down, and left.
No one noticed.
Just like her work these days.
That night, she walked for a long time.
The streets of the city were bright, crowded.
Yet for the first time, she felt an intense sense of floating.
As if she were still here.
But no longer needed.
She stood at an intersection and suddenly wanted to cry.
But she held it back.
She knew clearly—
If she cried now, she would truly lose.
Not to others.
But to the version of herself who once believed:
As long as I do my work well, I will always be kept.
True descent is often silent.
It happens on an utterly ordinary workday, when you suddenly realize—
You are no longer in anyone's priorities.
Ye Qing fully understood this the first time she was skipped.
That morning, the A-17 project held a phase review meeting.
It was a meeting she was never meant to know about.
But the notice was mistakenly sent to an old mailing list she was still on.
The notification popping up on her screen made her heart jolt without warning.
Time. Location. Attendees—
All clearly listed.
Her name was not among them.
She stared at the email for a long time.
No anger. No impulse.
She didn't even open the meeting materials.
She simply marked the email as "Read" and continued organizing the contracts in her hands.
But that morning, she made a low-level mistake for the first time.
She sent an obsolete attachment to an external contact.
The other party quickly replied to ask.
She apologized, recalled it, resent the correct file.
The process was flawless.
Yet when the "Sent Successfully" prompt appeared, her fingers trembled slightly.
Not because of the mistake.
But because—
She realized she had started to lose focus.
The very thing she once took the most pride in—and never allowed to happen.
At noon, she ate alone downstairs.
Crowded. Noisy.
She tasted nothing.
Her phone lit up. A message from Lin Ze:
Are you doing okay lately?
She stared at the line for a full minute.
Then replied:
I'm okay. Just adjusting to the new project.
He didn't reply for a long time.
She knew he had already done his best.
Some things can't be changed by reminders.
Meanwhile, on the 28th floor conference room, the atmosphere was anything but calm.
The A-17 project review was not going well.
A risk point Ye Qing had repeatedly emphasized was dismissed as "low probability" after her transfer.
Now the issue had surfaced.
Someone on one side of the table explained quietly:
"This situation wasn't highlighted as a key risk back then."
The room fell silent for a second.
"Who says it wasn't?"
Huang Chujiu's voice dropped noticeably.
Everyone froze.
He raised his hand, signaling Lin Ze to pull up the old version.
The screen lit up.
That page was marked with striking clarity.
Red highlights. Detailed notes. Backup plans.
At the bottom right corner—
A familiar signature.
No one spoke.
"This document," Huang Chujiu said, "who deleted it?"
No one answered.
Not because they didn't know.
But because they didn't dare.
"What I'm asking," his voice slow, frighteningly cold, "is who decided not to use it."
Someone finally forced an explanation:
"At the time, we thought it was too conservative and would slow progress…"
Before the sentence ended—
Huang Chujiu cut him off.
"You think it's important."
He paused.
"Or did she think it was important?"
The air in the room nearly froze.
Lin Ze stood aside, his palms already sweating.
This was the first time he had seen Huang Chujiu display such clear emotion in a public meeting.
Not anger.
But something that had been suppressed to its limit.
"From now on," Huang Chujiu stood, "all core risk assessments return to the original standard."
After a brief pause, he added:
"Use Ye Qing's version."
The moment the words fell, no one dared to respond.
Because everyone knew—
The author of that "version" was no longer here.
After the meeting, Lin Ze followed him into the office.
The door closed, and he couldn't help saying:
"If you act like this, people will notice."
"Notice what?" Huang Chujiu didn't turn around.
"That you regret it."
This time, he didn't immediately refute it.
After a long while, he said quietly:
"I'm not regretting."
"Then what are you doing?"
Outside the window, traffic streamed endlessly.
He looked into the distance, his voice barely audible.
"I'm confirming."
Confirming what—he didn't say.
But Lin Ze understood.
He was confirming—
Whether the position that person once held had truly been moved away by his own hands.
Ye Qing knew nothing about this.
She simply continued doing her work step by step.
Maintaining professionalism where she was unseen.
That evening, she left work earlier than usual.
Not because she was relaxed.
But because she suddenly didn't know what staying longer was for.
She walked out of the office building and waited by the roadside.
People came and went. No one noticed her.
She suddenly realized—
She hadn't looked up to search for that familiar figure in a long time.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she had finally learned not to expect.
That night, she reopened the notebook she hadn't touched in a long time.
The previous entries stopped far back.
She stared at the blank page for a long time before writing.
This time, she wrote slowly.
Stroke by stroke, as if passing judgment on herself.
If my position is destined to be taken back,then at least, I will stand upright.
She closed the notebook.
She did not write his name again.
What she didn't know—
Was that the same night, Huang Chujiu stood in his office, looking at the restored risk assessment document, and realized clearly for the first time:
What he had lost might not have been just an assistant.