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Lena

T he break room coffee machine is having an identity crisis.

It’s spitting out something that smells vaguely like burned dirt, making a sound that’s half mechanical death rattle, half existential cry for help. I’m debating whether I want to risk whatever carcinogens are floating in there when I see her. The same woman as before.

She’s standing by the counter, a yogurt cup in her hands. Not eating. Not scrolling through her phone. Just… staring into space.

Like she’s lost. Like she’s forgotten where she is.

The spoon hangs loosely between her fingers, but she doesn’t seem aware of it. There’s something unsettling about the way she stands, too still, like a marionette waiting for someone to pull the strings again.

I should leave it alone.

I don’t.

Because right then, something shifts. A flicker of movement in her hand. A small slip of paper, it looks like a receipt. She studies it for a long moment. Then, with eerie precision, she crumples it into a tight ball, tosses it into the trash, and walks out.

No hesitation. No second glance.

Curiosity gets the best of me.

I glance toward the door. She’s already gone.

For a moment, I tell myself to be normal. To get my coffee and go back to work.

Then I take a step forward.

The note is still warm when I fish it from the trash.

Crumpled. Wrinkled. Handled.

I smooth it open.

Her handwriting is messy, frantic. Like someone trying to pin something down before it slips away.

I scan the words.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to write this.

They’ll probably make me rewrite it again soon.

They love to make me forget.

The first time, it felt inevitable.

Like a weight I knew would crush me, and still, I let it.

He knew what he was doing.

The way he touched me.

The way he held me by the throat.

The way he made sure I’d never be the same after.

I told myself I wouldn’t let him win.

I told myself I’d remember.

But I don’t.

Not all of it. Not enough.

Only pieces.

I remember heat. Hands. His teeth digging into my collarbone, him telling me I was already his.

I remember wanting it.

And hating that I wanted it.

I remember waking up the next day feeling raw, wrecked, erased.

Like it had happened before.

Like it would happen again.

And now, I know ? —

I don’t forget because I want to.

I forget because they make me.

The words stick.

They settle into my chest, thick and cloying, like I’ve just swallowed something I shouldn’t have.

I glance around the break room, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet it is.

I fold the note and slip it into my pocket.

Because… I don’t know why.

Because putting it back in the trash doesn’t seem right.

Back at my desk, I try to focus.

I fail.

I have to know…

That woman? Who the hell is she?

I turn to Stewy who’s standing in the hall. He’s the least uptight person I’ve met here, which isn’t saying much, but still.

I keep my voice casual. “Hey. Who’s the woman with dark hair? The one who came from the break room just now?”

Stewy freezes. Just for half a second.

Then he shrugs. “I don’t know who you mean.”

Too fast.

Too dismissive.

I frown. “Tall. Pale. Black blouse. Looked like she was about to glitch out of reality.”

“Glitch out of reality?” He laughs. “That’s some imagination you have…”

“Maybe she’s just having a bad day. I don’t know. But I’ve seen her like that twice now. Who is she?”

His smile flickers—recognition, quickly masked.

“Don’t know. Maybe she’s from another department.”

Bullshit.

I should have known. He’s an attorney. If lying was a sport, he’d have corporate sponsorships.

I glance at the other offices, scanning faces. Someone has to know.

I try Carrie next—sharp, efficient, always knows everything.

“Hey, Carrie—who’s the woman who was just in the break room? Dark hair, kind of… vacant?”

Her hand pauses over her keyboard.

She doesn’t look at me. But eventually she says, “I think you’re mistaken. I didn’t see anyone in the break room. Just you.”

Lie.

Carrie keeps typing. Calm. Dismissive. Like this conversation is already over.

Then, just as I start to call her on it, she adds, “You know how it is. The mind fills in gaps when there’s nothing there.”

What?

She keeps typing, like she didn’t just say something insane.

“We all strive for clarity here, Lena.” Her voice is so smooth, so corporate-polished that it almost sounds reassuring. Almost. “It’s important to stay aligned with what’s real.”

A slow, crawling unease wraps around my ribs, tightens, squeezes.

This is crazy.

Like hell I imagined that woman.

Like hell I’m “filling in gaps.”

And I know a company line when I hear one.