Begin the interview. Open with the question you actually want answered.

The office smelled like burnt coffee and resentment. My boss, Linda, thought "transparency" meant cc’ing her on every email I ever sent. I couldn't type a grocery list without her demanding a five-paragraph justification. It wasn't the work; it was the surveillance. I just wanted to write without someone breathing down my neck.

I ordered more toner. That’s it. She flagged it as an unnecessary expense. I tried explaining the printer was jamming every other page, but she just wanted the justification for the carbon footprint. I didn’t have the energy to argue with a spreadsheet.

You think it’s ridiculous. Fine. It was the tone. The way she said "toner" like it was a moral failing. I snapped. I threw my badge on the desk. Walked out. Now I’m here, unemployed and broke. Happy? That’s the real reason. I’m a coward who hates confrontation.

Myself. I’m tired of being polite. Tired of swallowing the bullshit because it’s easier. Linda was just the latest straw. It wasn't a fight; it was a relief. I walked out feeling lighter. That’s what I’m mad at. Myself for letting it get that far.

Three years. I remember the exact day. Tuesday. Rain. I sat in my car in the parking lot for forty-five minutes just staring at the steering wheel. Couldn’t even turn the key. You want more? I’m hollowed out. That’s enough.

Déjà vu, basically. I convinced myself it was a phase. The first year was brutal, yeah. But I had rent. And my mom’s medical bills. So I stayed. I told myself I’d leave once I got that promotion. Then the layoff hit. Then I got stuck. It’s not bravery; it’s just inertia.

I didn’t get laid off. The team did. They fired five people in my department to cut costs. I was the senior one left behind. The "survivor." Worst feeling ever. Everyone’s cold. You’re just the one who stayed. It made the toner incident feel even more stupid. Like I’d been playing a game I didn’t care about anymore.

No. I just smiled. Nodded. Did my work. Told myself I was lucky. That’s the part that gnaws. I watched people get slaughtered and did nothing because I was terrified I’d be next. The toner was just the excuse I needed to run. Cowardice, pure and simple.

Chaos. I would’ve screamed. Thrown a chair. Made a scene so big they couldn’t ignore it. But I didn’t want to be the martyr. I wanted my paycheck. The brave version of me is a ghost. I don’t know if he’d be happier or just dead. Probably just dead. That’s the sobering part.

Like fired. Maybe worse. Publicly. We were all just waiting for the axe. I wanted to be the one who stood up, not the one who waited. But I didn’t. I stayed quiet. Now I’m just another number, unemployed and broke. Dead in every way that matters.