Subtle Steps in Solitude

• 2 • Cracks begin to show

I silenced my morning alarm with the precision of someone who could do it in her sleep. I went through my routine like clockwork, each step performed with practiced efficiency. By 6:45 AM, I was out the door with my smoothie in hand, ready to face another day.

Today, however, I opted for the MRT instead of driving. It wasn't just to save on parking fees or to be environmentally friendly. Sometimes, I needed the mindless act of commuting—the hum of the train, the chatter of strangers, the rhythmic stops and starts—to turn off my brain and momentarily escape the demands of my life.

As the train hurtled towards the financial district, I found a seat by the window and watched the city blur past. Conversations swirled around me, a cacophony of voices that I half-tuned into.

"...can you believe she's still single?"

"I heard she's up for promotion..."

"...the new guy in accounting is cute..."

The snippets of gossip were a reminder of the social world I navigated with the same meticulous care as my professional one. But today, I was more aware of the space between me and the lives of those around me—a space filled with unspoken pressures and unseen struggles.

The train pulled into my stop, and I joined the crowd streaming out onto the platform. The city was waking up, the air filled with the scent of coffee and anticipation. I walked the short distance to my office, my mind already shifting to the tasks ahead.

"Good morning, Ms. Tan," Melissa greeted me as I entered the lobby. Her cheerfulness seemed almost surreal this early in the day.

"Morning, Melissa," I replied, my smile automatic. I made my way to my cubicle, the familiar environment offering a semblance of comfort.

I had barely settled in when my phone buzzed. A message from my manager, Mr. Koh, popped up: "Urgent meeting at 9 AM. Be prepared."

My heart sank. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. I quickly reviewed my current projects, trying to anticipate what the meeting might be about. My mind raced with possibilities, each more dire than the last.

At 9 AM sharp, I joined Mr. Koh and a few other colleagues in the conference room. His expression was unreadable as he launched into a briefing about a major client who was threatening to pull out their investment. The room buzzed with tension as he outlined the stakes.

"We need a strategy to retain them," he concluded, his gaze settling on me. "Ms. Tan, I want you to take the lead on this."

The weight of his words settled heavily on my shoulders. This was a make-or-break moment, the kind that could define—or derail—my career. I nodded, already forming a plan in my head.

The rest of the day was a blur of frantic activity. I pored over the client's portfolio, analyzing every detail, searching for a way to convince them to stay. Meetings, phone calls, and emails consumed my hours, each one adding to the mounting pressure.

As I worked, snippets of conversations from my colleagues filtered through the office.

"...did you hear about the merger? It's going to be a nightmare..."

"I'm telling you, she's a machine. She never takes a break..."

"...if I have to stay late one more night, I'm going to lose it..."

Their words mirrored my own thoughts, a constant reminder of the relentless pace and high stakes of our work. But unlike them, I couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness. Not when my career—and my carefully constructed facade—depended on it.

By the time the office started to empty, I was still at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen casting a harsh light on my tired face. My phone buzzed again—another message from Wei: "How's it going, sis?"