Kassi
The day starts the same as any other day when I have to be in the office. Coffee that tastes a little burnt, emails that look like the same pile of nonsense I sorted yesterday, and a quiet promise to myself that if I just keep my head down, I'll make it through another week.
But by mid-morning, everything changes.
My boss calls me into his office without looking up from his computer screen. His tie is crooked. His smile is worse. With the head of HR here, I have a sinking feeling of what is coming, even though her face gives nothing away.
"Kassi, come in. Close the door."
That tone. I know it before he says anything else. Stepping inside, I fold my hands in front of me like I'm back in high school waiting for detention.
He finally looks up, pretending to look sorry. "I'll keep this short. The Board's been reviewing everyone's recent numbers and... unfortunately, your department hasn't delivered what we projected."
I blink. "My department? You mean me. I'm my department."
He clears his throat, shifting in his chair. "Right. That's part of the problem. The company's restructuring. We need people who can bring in results."
I hear the wordresultslike it's a gavel.
"Results?" I repeat. "I've hit every deadline you've handed me. Kept every report clean. I've stayed late, weekends, even when—"
"This isn't personal." The HR lady, whose name I still can't pull from my head, says.
"Well, it feels personal."
He exhales, as if my existence is an inconvenience. "There's no point dragging it out. HR will email you the exit paperwork.You'll get two weeks' severance. IT has already locked your access."
The world doesn't spin, but my stomach does.
"Is this about the development reports?" I ask, and for a second, I think he flinches. "Did I—did someone say something?"
"Don't make this harder than it has to be," he says. "Pack your things."
I stand there a heartbeat too long, then nod. My mouth moves before I can stop it. "I hope you know what you're doing."
He looks away. "I do."
The walk back to my desk feels longer than it should. Everyone's too busy to look at me, but somehow, I know they all know. I shove my mug, my notepad, and the photo of Emma into a cardboard box. The last thing I unplug is my computer mouse. It makes a tiny click when it disconnects—small, final, cruel.
Outside, the air hits me like I've stepped out of a sealed room. The sun's too bright. The parking lot smells of asphalt and exhaust. I sit in my car with the engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel.
Relief comes first, then the fear. In that moment, I'm glad I told Asher what I heard. I'm glad I didn't protect a company that couldn't care less about me. Most of all, I'm relieved to be free.
I'm free of the lies. Of pretending I don't know what they're planning. Free of watching men like him turn greed into strategy. But freedom doesn't pay rent. Freedom doesn't feed Emma.
Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through it.
I should call Asher and tell him what happened. He'd want to know. He'd probably drive into town before I finished the sentence. But I can't bring myself to dial. He has enough weight on his shoulders without mine added to it. I promised myself I wouldn't be another problem for him to solve.
So instead, I drive. Not home. Not anywhere near that office again. I head toward the library.
The old brick building sits behind a row of oaks that have stood longer than I've been alive. Following the narrow drive back behind the library, I park in front of the cabin she told me about.
The door creaks when I push it open, but the inside smells like new paint and sunlight.
It's bigger than I expected. Not fancy, but warm.Three small bedrooms. Two baths. Emma and I wouldn't have to share a bathroom anymore, and that alone sounds luxurious.
There is a small kitchen that feels like a dream because it's bigger than what I have now. The window over the sink looks out toward the edge of the trees, and I can almost see Emma there, her boots muddy, her hair wild. There's room for her to grow here. To breathe.