The next day, I marched into HR and slapped down my resignation letter like I was dropping a nuclear bomb.
I was twenty years old. Just a baby in the corporate world, only a year into the company. But somehow—it felt like I'd already lived three lifetimes inside that gray, suffocating cubicle.
My body was only twenty, but my soul? My soul was already filing for early retirement.
Why? Because I wasn't just working my job. Oh no, that would've been too easy. I was doing everyone's job.
My officemates', my boss's, sometimes even the boss's boss's. If the janitor had sneezed wrong, they'd probably have asked me to mop the floor too.
And because I was the "reliable pushover," I said yes. Always yes.
Every day ended the same: me, the last one in the office, staring at spreadsheets like they were cursed grimoires, while the others were out drinking, dating, or just living their best lives.
My overtime meals consisted of instant noodles and vending machine coffee, and honestly? Even the vending machine looked down on me.
In just one year, I had perfected the art of corporate slavery. I'd been whipped, trampled, and drained dry—only without the paycheck or the dramatic violin soundtrack you'd expect in movies.
My position? Still the same. My salary? Still laughable. My dignity? Probably under the office carpet, flattened by everyone's shoes.
I thought I could endure. I thought, "This is just the beginning, things will get better." But here's the truth: they never saw me as an employee.
To them, I was background furniture. A pushover, an easy button they could press whenever they were too lazy to do their jobs.
Years from now, AUREA's songs would save me. They would teach me to fight back, to stand tall, to love myself despite everything.
They would give me the courage to say, "No, I am not your office doormat." But in this moment—right now? I was still invisible. A ghost in office clothes.
And so I made a choice. A choice with trembling hands but a steady heart. I quit.
Not just the company. I quit being everyone's pushover.
This was my first step into the unknown—thrilling, terrifying, and just a little bit crazy.
Because honestly? Walking out of the office with my cardboard box of sad belongings (a plant, two pens, and my dignity—what was left of it) felt less like quitting and more like escaping a prison break.
And for the first time in a long, long while . . . I could breathe.
"Hey, Emy, you're really quitting?"
The voice slithered from behind me, sweet and sugary, but sharp enough to cut glass. I didn't even need to turn around. Of course, it was Patricia.
Patricia: office darling, boss's pet, resident sweetheart.
Also—queen of dumping her work onto me and then getting promoted for it.
We'd joined the company at the same time, yet here she was, a shiny new title on her desk, while I was still… well, corporate floor trash.
The old me would've ducked her head, laughed awkwardly, and swallowed my bitterness. But this wasn't the old me.
I lifted my chin, looked her square in the eye, and said, "That's right."
The words landed like a dropped glass. Suddenly, the office was alive with whispers and gasps. Heads popped up over cubicles like prairie dogs at feeding time.
"What?"
"Seriously?"
"You're quitting?!"
"No way. Who's going to do our work?"
I arched a brow. "Uh, you? That's literally your job description."
The guy who asked blinked at me, lips pressed so tight they could've been stapled. His confusion was almost comical.
"Actually," I continued, voice louder this time, "all of you should probably try doing your jobs instead of shoving them on the newbies. Unless, of course, you're planning to pay me to do it for you. Retroactively."
The room fell silent. Somewhere, a stapler clicked nervously.
Patricia, of course, wasn't about to let it go. She tilted her head in that fake-innocent way of hers. "Emy, dear, are you really resigning?" Her voice dripped with honey, but her eyes screamed panic. Because let's be honest—without me, who was going to catch all the crap she passed off?
I nodded firmly. "Yeah. The pay's trash, but somehow my workload feels like I own the whole damn company."
A few people snickered. Not with me, but at me. Always at me.
Patricia leaned closer, her lips curving into a sympathetic pout. "But Emy, you said it yourself—you needed this job, right? Because no one else would hire you?"
Ah. There it was. The dagger to the ribs, wrapped in sugar.
I smiled. And not my usual awkward smile. A real one. "I did say that. But doing my best means doing my job, not everyone else's. And don't worry about me. I've got a new prospect."
"New . . . prospect?" one of the guys echoed, incredulous.
"No way," another scoffed. "Who'd hire someone like you?"
I ignored their snide comments, straightened my back, and declared: "I'm going to be a songwriter."
The silence was delicious. It lasted three whole seconds before the office erupted like a pack of hyenas.
"You?!"
"Songwriter?!"
"Oh my God—Emy, don't make me choke!"
"She can't even sing Happy Birthday on key!"
"The Entertainment industry will eat her alive!"
"If the Entertainment industry would accept an ugly girl like her in the first place."
I let them laugh. Their words bounced off me, lighter than paper. For the first time ever, I wasn't carrying their weight.
With a shrug, I picked up my box of sad little belongings and walked right out of that office—out of that prison—wearing the biggest grin on my face.
Freedom.
It tasted better than vending machine coffee.