Seraphina's Point Of View
After the bathroom breakdown, after the weak jokes to the mirror, after convincing myself that crying on cold tiles counted as "processing," I dragged myself back into my room.
The room smelled faintly of detergent and something else… sleep, maybe. Or yesterday. Or memories I didn't want clinging to fabric. I pulled open my wardrobe and stared at my clothes like they had personally offended me.
"What do you wear," I muttered, "when your heart is bruised, your eyes look like you fought a ghost, and your life feels mildly cursed?"
No answer.
Figures.
I chose something simple. Neutral. Safe. A soft blouse that didn't cling, dark pants that made me look more put together than I felt. I dressed slowly, mechanically, like a robot following a routine it hadn't updated in years.
Then I turned to the bed.
The sheets.
My stomach twisted.
I stripped them off quickly, not wanting to think too hard about why my hands hesitated for half a second before yanking the pillowcase free. I bundled everything up and shoved it into the laundry basket like it had personally betrayed me.
Fresh sheets. Clean pillowcase. Crisp, untouched, innocent.
There.
Reset.
I fell back onto the bed dramatically, arms spread, staring at the ceiling again.
"I seriously do not want to go to work," I groaned.
The words came out whiny, stretched, dramatic, like a child protesting bedtime. I rolled onto my side, burying my face into the new pillow. "I don't want to smile. I don't want to talk. I don't want to pretend I'm okay when I'm running on emotional fumes."
I peeked up, sighed deeply.
"But I must," I added miserably.
Life, unfortunately, did not care.
I groaned, rolled off the bed, and stood, knees cracking slightly like they were also tired of this nonsense.
Before leaving, I paused. Folded my hands awkwardly, and said a very short, very clumsy prayer.
"God," I whispered, glancing upward like He might be hovering above my light fixture, "please don't let today be terrible. Or… extra terrible. And please help me not cry at work. Or scream. Or slap anyone."
I hesitated.
"And if you're still upset about last night," I added quickly, "we'll talk later."
I grabbed my bag, scribbled a quick note for my mom… Went to work early. Love you, and slipped out of the house.
Outside, the morning air was cool, slightly damp, smelling like exhaust and wet pavement. I called a taxi and waited, rocking slightly on my heels, hugging myself like the world felt a little too big.
The ride to work passed in a blur of passing buildings and muted thoughts. I stared out the window, watching the city wake up, everyone moving like they had places to be and reasons to exist.
Lucky them.
When we arrived, I paid the driver, stepped out, and stood in front of the building. Just stood. The glass exterior reflected me back… small, composed, deceptively normal.
I took a breath.
Another.
"Okay," I murmured. "Let's do this."
Inside, I walked toward the employee entrance and ran my card through the scanner, the little beep confirming my identity felt oddly judgmental.
Yes, it seemed to say. You belong here. Even if you don't feel like you belong anywhere.
The receptionist looked up immediately.
"Good morning!" she chirped.
"Morning," I replied, forcing a smile. It slid onto my face like muscle memory. Every step deeper into the building drained me a little more.
"Hey!"
"Good morning!"
"Nice to see you!"
I smiled. Nodded. Greeted.
Each interaction felt like pulling coins from an empty pocket. By the time I reached my workspace, my cheeks ached, my head throbbed, and I felt like I'd already worked a full shift just pretending.
I dropped my bag beside the desk, exhaled slowly, and finally settled in my chair.
The leather creaked softly under my weight, familiar and grounding. For a second… just one, I let my head fall back against the headrest and stared at the ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Too bright. Too awake. Too real.
Work didn't care that my heart had been through a blender.
A soft knock came almost immediately.
"Come in," I said, already straightening up, shoulders back, mask sliding into place like second skin.
The door opened and Rose stepped in, clutching a neat stack of documents to her chest. She was efficient, always dressed sharply, hair pulled back, eyes observant. The kind of assistant who noticed everything and forgot nothing.
"Good morning, ma'am," she said brightly, placing the documents on my desk. "These are the files you requested yesterday. The vendor approvals and the revised projections."
"Thank you, Rose," I replied, opening my laptop. The familiar hum as it powered on felt oddly comforting.
I didn't look up when I spoke again.
"Actually," I added, fingers already flying across the keyboard, "bring everything."
She froze.
"…Everything?" she repeated slowly.
"All the files and projects I need to approve this week," I clarified calmly. "Contracts. Reports. Pending reviews. All of it."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Rose blinked. Then blinked again.
"Ma'am," she said carefully, lowering her voice like she was about to deliver a medical diagnosis, "that's a suicide mission."
I glanced up at her.
Deadpan.
"And I say," she continued, lifting a finger dramatically, "we should abort."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitched. "Don't worry about me," I said lightly. "I'll be fine." She stared at me like I'd just volunteered to wrestle a lion before lunch.
"…Are you sure?" she asked. "Because last time someone tried that, they didn't leave their office until midnight. And they cried. A lot."
"I won't cry," I said. "Probably."
Rose sighed deeply, shook her head, and gathered the remaining folders from her arms.
"Alright," she muttered. "If you don't emerge alive, I'll tell HR you died bravely."
She turned toward the door, then slowed, glancing back over her shoulder, clearly waiting for me to laugh. Or smile. Or say just kidding.
I didn't.
My eyes were already back on my screen.
Her brows furrowed.
"…It wasn't… a joke," she said uncertainly.
I nodded absently. "Mm."
She hesitated another second, then finally left, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was focused.
This office… my office wasn't something I'd been handed. It was something I'd earned, inch by inch, sleepless night by sleepless night.
I was one of the youngest core staff members in the company. A position people twice my age still angled for. A seat at the table where decisions actually mattered.
And I hadn't gotten here by luck.
I'd walked into this building years ago as an intern, nervous, overprepared, clutching a notebook like it was armor. Second year of university. Barely old enough to drink, old enough to be underestimated.
My professor had recommended me.
She's sharp, she'd said. Doesn't just memorize… she understands.
I'd taken that trust personally.
I worked harder than I thought possible. Balanced classes with late nights, research with deadlines, exams with presentations. I learned fast. Asked questions. Took notes. Stayed quiet when I needed to and spoke up when it mattered.
I didn't slack in school.
I didn't slack here.
By the time I graduated, I wasn't leaving… I was already permanent. And then came the promotions. One. Then another. Then another.
Not because I begged.
Because I delivered.
This place wasn't toxic. No whispered sabotage. No petty office wars. People taught me. Helped me. Pulled me aside and said, Try it this way, or Here's how not to mess this up.
When the company reviewed top performers, my name kept coming up. Again and again. Until eventually, there I was… core staff. Trusted. Relied on.
I stared at the growing pile of files on my desk as Rose returned in multiple trips, stacking them neatly like she was building a paper fortress.
"Well," I murmured under my breath, cracking my knuckles, "let's get to it."
If I couldn't control my life, I could at least control my work.
And right now?
That would have to be enough.