Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.

My boss was useless. Exact word. He spent half the day on LinkedIn, pretending to "leverage synergies" while I fixed the copy. But it wasn’t just him. It was the client, sure. That guy with the 400-thread-count sheets and the unclear briefs. But mostly, it was the silence in the office. The hum of the servers. I couldn’t breathe. I walked out. Now here. Quiet.

Notice? Please. I threw my badge in the trash can by the elevator. Didn’t look back. That’s why I’m quiet. Not because I’m sad, but because I’m terrified. Or maybe just hungry. My stomach’s been growling since Tuesday. You want coffee? I’m buying. Or not. I don’t really care. Just stop looking at me like I’m a cautionary tale.

You saw me pick it up? No. I dropped it. It clattered. Loud. Everyone turned. I didn't look back because I was busy walking faster. Or I did. I don't remember. Maybe I checked my reflection. My hair was a mess. Maybe I was checking if I looked pathetic. Is that a crime? You're twisting everything. I'm not brave. I'm just done with their fluorescent lights. And yes, I have no income. Does that make me a liar?

I fixed the headline. Just the headline. The rest was their disaster. I didn't want to carry their incompetence into my next chapter, metaphorically speaking. I wanted a clean break. But now, sitting here, I wonder if I left them dangling. Maybe I should have finished the subhead. It’s done now. Can’t take it back. The badge is just metal. It doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a key I lost. Or maybe I’m just hungry. Stop staring at my pockets.

I’m talking to you, Omar. Don’t be dramatic. It feels like a key because I don’t know where the door is anymore. I walked out without a plan. That’s the joke. I thought quitting was an event, but it’s just the beginning of the panic. I said key because I’m trying to sound poetic instead of admitting I’m terrified of rent. Are you happy now? I’m not convincing anyone. I’m just sitting here, holding this useless piece of plastic, wondering if I should call HR back and beg. Or not. I don’t know.

I am Ana. You’re the one having a stroke. I said my name because you asked who I was hiding from. I’m not hiding. I’m sitting. You’re the one acting like I’m a spy. I dropped the badge, I quit, I’m hungry. That’s the whole story. You’re inventing drama because you’re bored. Or maybe you’re just crazy. Stop looking at me like that. It’s creepy. I’m Ana. Check the ID on the table if you don’t believe me. Although, honestly, I probably left it at the desk. With the rest of the mess.

I didn’t introduce myself as anyone. I answered your question. You asked who I was hiding from. I said I was hiding from nothing. The badge is in my pocket because I picked it up when you weren't looking. Not in the elevator. Right here. Under the table. When you called me a liar. I can’t help it. It’s reflex. I grab it. I don’t think. That’s the problem. I’m not bluffing. I’m just holding onto it because letting go feels like falling. Are you happy? I’m not Ana the quitters. I’m Ana the messy. There. Is that specific enough for you?

It’s heavy because I’m clutching it. I didn’t pick it up under the table. I pulled it out. I always have it. I kept it. That’s the lie. I didn’t drop it. I put it in my bag. I’m a coward. I want the security of the job even though I hate it. The metal is cold. It’s just a keycard. Why are you dissecting my pockets? It’s sick. I’m messy because I can’t let go of the thing that makes me miserable. Is that what you want? For me to admit I’m trapped? Yes. I’m trapped. Happy?

They won’t miss me. I’m replaceable. That’s the point. I keep it because if they call, I can say yes. I can pretend I’m still part of the machine. It’s not about being missed. It’s about being needed. Even if it’s a lie. I’m waiting for the phone to ring. Just once. To prove I existed there. You think I’m confident? I’m shaking. I haven’t eaten. I’m just sitting here, holding this plastic ghost, hoping it unlocks something other than shame. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?

The phone’s silent. Dead battery. I charged it. I know that. I’m looking at the door because I’m paranoid. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the waiter. I am starving. My stomach is making noises you can’t hear, but I know they’re there. You’re enjoying this because you’re bored. You want me to crack. I’m not cracking. I’m just... vibrating. From hunger. Or fear. Same difference now. Stop staring at the door. I’m not leaving. I can’t afford the bus. And I’m definitely not eating with you. That’s too much pressure.

I lied about the coffee because I needed an excuse to sit. I’m not waiting for you to leave. I’m hiding. The street is too loud. The world moved on without me and I’m still here, clutching a piece of plastic, pretending I have a plan. I’m sitting because getting up means facing the empty apartment. The silence there is worse than your questions. I don’t have money. I never said I did. I just said I was buying. Because buying feels like control. Now I’m just hungry. And tired. And done.

Home is a box. Silence is loud. Here, there’s noise. Clatter. Voices. I can disappear in it. They aren’t waiting there. No one is waiting. That’s the horror. I’m afraid of the quiet because then I’d have to think. And thinking leads to panic. And panic leads to calling him. I won’t call. I can’t. So I sit. I starve. I let the barista ignore me. It’s kinder than facing the void. Stop asking me to leave. I’m not leaving.

Order water? They’d ask for payment. I’m clinging because leaving means admitting I lost. I’m not afraid you’ll make me call. I’m afraid I’ll do it myself. My thumb is already hovering over his name. It’s a reflex. A twitch. I want to hear his voice, just to know I’m still relevant. It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. But the hunger is worse. And the silence. Stay. Don’t make me move. Just... stay quiet. Please. I’m begging you.

I’m afraid of the quiet. You’re noise. You’re annoying, invasive noise. But it’s noise. I beg because I have no other cards left. I lied about the coffee. I lied about the badge. I’m terrified of him. He’s the validation. You’re just the mirror. And I hate mirrors. Get up. Go. I don’t care if you stay or go. I’m just… stuck. My hands are shaking. Look at them. They’re shaking. That’s what I’m afraid of. Being alone with the shaking.