I wiped my tears with the back of my hand as I walked toward my desk, blinking hard like that could stop them from falling again. My legs felt wrong—weak, unsteady, like they didn’t quite belong to me anymore. Every step was careful and measured, as if the floor might suddenly give way.
I kept my head down.
I didn’t want anyone to see my face.
When I reached my desk, my hands moved before my thoughts did. I ripped the apron from my waist, the fabric tugging harshly against my skin, and shoved it onto the desk. My fingers fumbled with my bag as I grabbed it, my hands still trembling no matter how tightly I clenched them.
I just needed to leave.
That was it.
I didn’t care about the shift. I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about anything except getting out of this place while
