I picked up a cheap plastic pen and wrote my name quickly, before I could change my mind.
The paper felt thin and fragile under my fingers.
At three in the afternoon, the fluorescent lights of the archive breakroom buzzed overhead.
Evelyn, our senior director, sat across from me with a mug of green tea.
She twirled her silver pen between her fingers, her usual energetic enthusiasm replaced by a quiet, searching look.
“You are our best researcher, Clara,” Evelyn said, stopping the pen mid-spin. “Why are you doing this?”
“David and I talked about it,” I said, my voice sounding defensive even to myself. “It makes more sense for our schedule.”
Evelyn set the silver pen down on the table with a soft click.
“A schedule is easy to fix,” she said. “A career is much harder to rebuild once you step back.”
I looked down at my hands, feeling a sudden, quiet regret.
“We want to focus on the house before the winter comes,” I said, though the words felt like a script I had memorized.
Evelyn did not argue, but she did not look convinced.
“The offer for the senior role stands until the budget is locked next month,” she said.
She stood up, leaving her empty mug on the table.
I sat alone for a long time, listening to the hum of the vending machine.
When I got home at six, the townhouse was cold.
I made a simple dinner, the cost of twenty-two dollars for a single bag of groceries fresh in my mind as I chopped the carrots.
The townhouse radiator gave a dry, metallic hiss in the corner of the dining room.
David arrived at eight, his face flushed with the energy of his workday.
He set his expensive leather briefcase on the hardwood floor and walked straight to me
