---
*Adeline's POV*
Some mornings, I lie in bed and pretend the world doesn't exist. Pretend I don't have to get up. Pretend I don't work at a place that grinds me
But then my phone buzzes, screaming like it always does, and reality snaps back — cold, sharp, and suffocating.
I roll over, face buried in my pillow, and groan. My alarm reads 6:00 AM. I hit snooze. Twice. Maybe three times. By the time I drag myself out of bed, my apartment is already too bright, too loud, and too damn real.
My studio apartment is the definition of "barely making it." The paint is peeling, the floor creaks, and the water heater only works when it feels generous. The coffee machine gave up last week, so I pour myself instant coffee that tastes like burnt rubber and defeat.
I sit on the couch — stained, secondhand — and scroll through my phone, avoiding the email I know is waiting from him.
Dave.
My boss.
My tormentor in human form. I work for *The Beacon*, a bottom-of-the-barrel media site pretending to be edgy journalism. In truth, it's a cesspool of lies, gossip, and click bait. And I'm stuck right in it — writing garbage stories I don't believe in for a man who doesn't see me as anything but disposable.
I open my inbox.
*Subject: Where the hell are you?*
He always types in all caps, as if shouting through the screen. My stomach tightens as I read the message.
> "If you're late again, Adeline, don't bother coming in. And if I have to edit another one of your soft-ass articles, I swear to God I'll make sure you're covering cat funerals for the rest of your miserable career.
> Now move your ass and bring something *worth reading* today. You've already wasted enough of my time. — D."
I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
But I don't. I get dressed.
Same jeans as yesterday. Black turtleneck. Hair in a bun. No makeup. No energy. Just me, going through the motions like a machine on the verge of malfunction.
***
By the time I get to the office, Dave is already waiting by my desk. His face is red, as always, and his tie is crooked like his moral compass.
"You're twenty minutes late," he growls. "Did you walk here from another city?"
"I missed the train," I mutter.
"Then leave earlier. Jesus, Adeline, it's not that hard."
I say nothing.
He leans in closer. "You've got one shot left. One more shitty pathetic excuse for a story and you're out. Understand?"
I nod.
He doesn't leave. "Speak up when I talk to you."
"Yes. I understand."
He smirks. "Good. Now go find something people will actually click on. I don't care if you have to stalk a celebrity or crash a funeral — bring me something dirty."
I nod again and sit down, heart pounding. Dave walks away, laughing with the new intern — a girl who looks terrified and flattered at the same time. I was her once. Wide-eyed. Hopeful.
That didn't last long.
Because Dave had a bad personality.
***
By lunch, I'm halfway through a story about a D-list actress getting divorced for the third time. I know it's garbage. But garbage pays my rent.
I run my fingers through my hair and sigh. I haven't eaten yet. I don't even know if I have the energy to. My stomach is a knot of anxiety and shame.
I check my phone.
Another message.
*"That dress you wore last Tuesday. You should wear it again."*
No name. No reply option.
I stare at it, heart thumping.
I should be scared.
But I'm not.
Not really.
Because whoever this is — at least they see me.
Not like Dave. Not like the world.
They see *me*.
By 4pm I finish the story and hand it in. Dave doesn't say anything, just grunts and waves me off. That's the closest I'll get to praise.
As I pack up my things to leave, he passes by and says, "Took you long enough. Try not to suck tomorrow."
I don't answer.
What's the point?
I waved my colleagues and told them I'm good back home since I'm already done
***
Back at home, I collapse onto the couch. My bones ache in places I didn't know could hurt. My phone buzzes again.
*"You looked sad today."*
That's all it says.
And for some stupid reason… I didn't think of as anything , I had forgotten about the first message
Not because it's creepy.
But because it's true
And somehow, it feels like the only person in the world who notices I'm falling apart.
---