Pressed for Eight...

It’s the same routine every day. I wake up at 6:00 AM, have my coffee on the balcony, and watch the sun rise. I remember how I kept rejecting condos that didn’t have a balcony overlooking the city. I wasn’t looking for a penthouse or anything fancy, just a cozy spot with a view. That was the one picture that stuck in my head while house-hunting. Maybe it’s because I lived with roommates in school, and one of them turned our shared living room into her makeshift office. Privacy became a dream, and a quiet balcony became the symbol of it.

The first rays of the sun hit my face and blind me a little. The warmth feels like someone gently draping a heated blanket over my shoulders. It’s 6:25 AM—Frank’s up. I hear the soft jingle of his collar as he pads toward me. He climbs onto my lap, sniffs the coffee mug—he approves—then curls up, tail flicking like a soft metronome.

I found Frankie a month after moving in. Not from a shelter or a pet store—he was curled near a trash bin during one of my recycling trips. Just a tiny orange puffball, maybe two weeks old. The vet said he was healthy. Over a year later, I’d kill for that cat.

At 6:30 sharp, the automatic feeder dispenses breakfast. Frankie springs to life and bolts to the kitchen. Honestly, he’d trade me for a can of tuna.

I don’t finish my coffee, but it’s time to get moving. I stand reluctantly, head to my room, and turn on the shower. While it heats, I lay out my outfit: a black Calvin Klein blouse, off-white dress pants, and black kitten heels. The steam curls around me as I step in. The warmth wraps me like a hug, and I close my eyes.

I put on light makeup: a clean bun for my hair, moisturizer, SPF, and my signature bright red lipstick. I kiss Frankie on the forehead and head out of my apartment. The door locks automatically behind me.

The commute to work isn’t long—just a ten-minute walk—and I always stop by the corner-side café on the way. The barista, who’s also named Olivia, knows my order by heart now. She pours my medium French vanilla with a quarter coffee as I ask how her classes are going.

“It’s finals,” she says with a sigh, a hint of frustration in her tone.

She’s in her final year of economics at the university. One morning, during one of our casual chats, she told me she dreams of working for the IMF someday.

I pay for my drink and exit the café, crossing the street and walking into my office building. I pass by strangers who look sharp in suits or relaxed in business casual—some talking on their phones, others clutching coffee cups or metal thermoses like mine. Most of them seem somewhat content. Maybe it’s the Friday feeling. Maybe we all pretend a little harder on Fridays.

I took the elevator to the 8th floor.“Eighth floor,” the robotic voice announced, pulling me out of my thoughts as the doors slid open to reveal a stranger waiting to board.

I only looked at him for a second—just long enough to notice he didn’t look rushed like everyone else—before I dropped my gaze back to my coffee. I took a sip. Too hot. I swallowed it anyway, along with a cough that threatened to burst out of me and ruin whatever dignity I had left.

He stepped into the elevator and stood on the opposite side, giving me just enough space to pretend we weren’t aware of each other. He pressed 30 on the keypad.

“Going up,” the robot chimed again as the doors closed. Apparently, I’m going to the 30th floor now too—or at least that’s what he might think, since I was too busy swallowing my pride (and a near-death coughing fit) to exit the elevator.

He wore a Powder blue shirt. Grey blazer. Jeans.A finance guy, maybe.

He was tall—not lean. In fact, his clothes looked like they were fighting to contain all that muscle.How do people even find the time to work out that much? I mean, I admire a great body as much as the next person, but I’m way too lazy to give up my evening Netflix coma or worry about the extra fat around my tummy.

Not that I mind it. I like how I look—my chubby thighs and soft stomach rolls. I feel like one of those women in old museum paintings: full-bodied, real, worshipped in oil and gold frames.

I didn’t see his face all that clearly, but he looked like someone who’s been through stuff. Not in a dramatic, mysterious way—more like someone who’s tired. Grumpy, maybe. Could be the job. Or just a guy who hates mornings.

“Thirtieth floor,” the robot said, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Some kind of sound escaped me—like a startled kitten. I instinctively clutched the fabric of my blouse, my face burning with secondhand embarrassment—for myself.

I wanted the floor beneath me to open and swallow me whole.

Instead, the elevator doors slid open.And the mystery man walked out. No glance. No nod. Nothing. Just walked out of my life like he was never in it.

I quickly pressed 8 on the keypad.

“Going down.”

“Fuck,” I muttered. “I’m an idiot.”