KINDNESS

I wish I could say my life is some grand adventure. That every morning I wake up with purpose, that my life holds significance beyond a meaningless cycle of work, sleep, repeat. But that would be a lie. The truth? My life is nothing but a monotonous loop. A slow, painful decay masked as existence.

The subway car rattles, the fluorescent lights flickering above. Their dim, soulless glow casts eerie shadows across the smudged windows, and for the third time this week, I am trying to figure out if the smell hanging in the air is urine or just cheap perfume mixed with sweat. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. My reflection stares back at me, hollow-eyed and exhausted. Another night of barely any sleep. Another morning of pretending it doesn’t matter. I step out of the subway and merge into the morning rush, my cheap heels clicking against the pavement as I make my way to the towering glass building that houses The Mothwin Trust. The company name is plastered in obnoxious gold lettering across the revolving doors, as if screaming at the world:

We Matter. We Are Important.

I scoff under my breath. I am not important. Not here. Not anywhere.

The second I step inside, the air thickens, suffocating me with the cloying scent of too-expensive perfume and freshly printed sales reports. The reception area is pristine, a sea of sleek, black marble and sharp, soulless edges. The kind of place that feels clinical, unwelcoming. And yet, for people like me, people who don’t quite belong, it’s like a battleground.

“Morning, Roxanne.”

I barely glance up as I pass the front desk, nodding at Sara, the receptionist. She doesn’t bother with a real greeting. She never does. Not to me anyway. Just an obligatory acknowledgement before she turns her attention back to her phone, undoubtedly gossiping in the company group chat. Probably the same one that occasionally features me as their favourite punchline.

The open-plan office is already buzzing. Salespeople in expensive suits and designer dresses cluster in small groups, laughing, sipping their overpriced lattes, sharing their latest wins like they’re warriors recounting victorious battles. I keep my head down, making my way to my tiny desk in the far corner of the office, the admin section. The forgotten sector.

“Wow, Rookie, is that the same outfit from yesterday?” Rookie. The name they gave me when I first started here, and I didn’t have a clue about office life. I freeze for half a second before forcing myself to keep moving, ignoring the sneering voice behind me. Becky. Of course, it’s Becky. The queen bee of The Mothwin Trust, self-appointed ruler of office gossip and expert in making me feel like absolute shit.

“Maybe she’s going for that… vintage look,” someone else chimes in.

My hands tighten into fists at my sides. I swallow down the sharp sting in my throat and lower myself into my chair, my face burning.

I pretend not to hear as they continue whispering behind me. It’s always the same. My clothes, my cheap perfume, my pathetic position as an admin instead of a sales rep like them. A sales rep that brings something to the table for this place and not just staples together some paper and sends a few emails.

“God, I think I caught a whiff of her perfume,” Becky murmurs, her voice laced with horror. “It’s… earthy. Very mildewy bookstore in a back-alley vibes.”

Laughter. My nails dig into my palm beneath my desk. I could snap back. I could turn around and say something cruel. But I don’t. I never do. Because in this world, people like me, people who don’t shine like they are some sort of expensive trophy, don’t fight back. We endure. We survive.

Barely.

The hours blur into a dull haze of emails, spreadsheets, and coffee that tastes like burnt regret that I should have paid more attention back in school, and I wouldn’t have ended up in a shitty job like this. It’s just another day in a life I never asked for. Another day of exhaustion dragging at my bones, my limbs heavy from more than just lack of rest.

Until it isn’t. Until I’m standing by the breakroom, balancing a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of invoices in the other, and suddenly—

A splash, a gasp and something cold. Ice-cold water crashes over me, soaking my blouse, my skirt, my skin.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Becky gasps, her voice dripping with insincerity, her perfectly manicured hand covering her mouth.

“I didn’t see you there.”

I can hear people laughing somewhere, a few hushed snickers hidden behind hands and behind their fake concern. I stand there, dripping, frozen and humiliation burning through me like acid. My fingers tighten around the coffee cup until I realise it’s empty, the liquid now mingling with the water seeping into my clothes.

“It’s okay. It happens. It’s not like you did it on purpose,” I say and force myself to a smile, like she didn’t just empty her entire water bottle over me.

I don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. I turn around and walk back to my desk.

For the rest of the day, I sit in wet clothes on my chair, pretending to ignore the looks people give me whenever someone comes over to drop more work on my desk until it's finally time to go home. The cool night air greets me like an old friend as I step onto the street, my damp clothes clinging to my skin. I only take a few steps before it starts to rain, leaving behind the scent of damp pavement and something almost electric in the air. I make my way past the bus stop near the company, my fingers curled around the handle of my umbrella that seems useless to me no,w considering my clothes are still wet from the incident earlier. And that’s when I met him for the first time.

He was sitting alone on the bench, head bowed, and his dark hair falling over his eyes. His clothes are dishevelled, his posture slack. I would have kept walking if I hadn’t noticed the crimson staining his hand and trailing down his fingers. Blood.

I should keep walking. I should pretend I didn’t see him. But instead, I stop. Wordlessly, I extend my umbrella towards him. Seems like I am not the only person with a rough day today. He looks up, and for the first time, I see his eyes—dark and intense. I gesture to my soaked clothes and force a small, bitter smile.

“Too late for me.”

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then, slowly, his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. He takes the umbrella from my hand without a word. And just like that, my world shifts.

I don’t know it yet. But I have just invited a storm into my life.