You had not begged to see the full report.
You had simply quit.
Now, as the taxi turned toward your apartment in Queens, you realized something strange.
You did not feel ruined.
You felt tired.
Not sad. Not scared. Just bone-deep tired in the way a person becomes tired after holding up a collapsing building while everyone else complains about the dust.
When you reached your apartment, you paid the driver, climbed three flights of stairs, kicked off your heels at the door, and dropped your work bag on the floor like it had insulted your ancestors.
Your apartment was small.
One bedroom. One crooked bookshelf. One thrift-store couch. One kitchen table where you had eaten too many dinners while answering emergency emails about spoiled influencers, angry sponsors, missing contracts, brand meltdowns, failed album rollouts, and artists threatening to “go independent” at midnight.
You walked straight to your bedroom.
You did not shower.
You did not make tea.
You did not check your email.
You pulled the curtains shut, turned your phone face down, and fell asleep still wearing your blouse.
You slept for fourteen hours.
No dreams.
No panic.
No guilt.
Just sleep so heavy it felt like your body had been waiting years to collect a debt.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight was slicing across your floor.
For a few seconds, you did not remember.
Then you did.
HR.
Performance standards.
$730.
Renunciation.
Block.
You sat up slowly.
Your phone was still face down on the nightstand. It buzzed once. Then again. Then again, like an insect trapped under glass.
You picked it up.
The screen was chaos.
180 missed calls.
260 text messages.
42 emails flagged urgent.
17 voice mails.
Most were from unknown numbers.
Some from colleagues.
