Subtle Steps in Solitude

• 1 • Perfect facade

The alarm blared at precisely 5:30 AM, a shrill reminder that another meticulously planned day was about to begin. I, Priscilla Tan—Cici to the few who dared to be informal with me—reached out to silence the noise. My hand hovered over the snooze button for a fraction of a second before I caught myself. Cici Tan doesn't need five more minutes. Cici Tan is always ahead of schedule.

I slipped out of bed, my feet finding their home in a pair of well-worn slippers. The cool morning air hit my skin as I padded across my modest apartment. It wasn't much, but it was mine—a badge of independence I wore with pride, even if the rent ate up a good chunk of my paycheck.

The bathroom mirror greeted me with a reflection I had learned to curate as carefully as my clients' portfolios. At 28, I looked... well, 28. The first hints of fine lines were starting to appear around my eyes—laugh lines, my mother called them, though I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed hard enough to warrant them.

I leaned in, scrutinizing for any imperfections. Finding several—because who doesn't at 5:35 in the morning?—I began my daily transformation.

Cleanse, tone, moisturize. Concealer for the dark circles that spoke of late nights poring over financial reports. Foundation to even out the stress-induced blotchiness. Each step was a brick in the wall I built between my true self and the world.

As I applied my makeup—professional yet approachable—I recited my morning affirmations in my head.

"I am competent. I am in control. I am respected. I am successful."

The last one always stuck in my throat a little, but I pushed past it. Doubt was a luxury I couldn't afford, not when I had clients relying on me and a reputation to maintain in Singapore's competitive financial sector.

An hour later, I emerged from my bedroom, dressed in a simple blouse and a sensible skirt—an ensemble chosen more for its practicality than style. My sensible flats clicked softly against the tile floors, a rhythm that I hoped sang of competence and ambition, even as uncertainty gnawed at my insides.

In the kitchen, I prepared my breakfast—a quick smoothie made from whatever fruits were on sale at the market this week. As the blender whirred, my eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. 6:45 AM. Right on schedule.

I poured the purplish liquid into a reusable cup, grabbed my handbag, and headed for the door. But as my hand touched the knob, I hesitated. For a brief moment, the mask slipped. My shoulders sagged, and a sigh escaped my carefully painted lips.

The urge to turn back, to crawl under the covers and lose myself in the pages of a book or the familiar scenes of a Star Wars movie, was almost overwhelming. But that wasn't what Cici Tan did. Cici Tan faced the world head-on, armed with spreadsheets and a smile that hid a multitude of insecurities.

I straightened my spine, plastered on my game face, and stepped out into the world that expected nothing less than perfection from me. Another day of being Priscilla "Cici" Tan, financial adviser, was about to begin.

Little did the world know that behind this polished facade was a woman teetering on the edge of an existential crisis, one client meeting at a time.

The elevator ride to the 15th floor was the usual blur of polite nods and half-smiles exchanged with colleagues. My office was nestled in a nondescript building in Singapore's financial district, a hub of ceaseless activity where ambition hung thick in the air. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the lobby as I stepped out of the lift, clutching my smoothie like a lifeline.

"Good morning, Ms. Tan," chirped Melissa, the ever-cheerful receptionist who seemed immune to the Monday blues.

"Morning, Melissa," I replied, my smile automatic.