Dream Job | 18+ (unedited)

The television flickered in the half-light of the kitchen, reflecting on Nicole’s face in a wash of soft blue and white.

The volume was hardly louder than the hum of the refrigerator, but she stood there anyway, frozen in her sleep shirt, one sock on, one foot bare against the cold linoleum.

The woman on the screen smiled in the same way she always smiled, her lips thin, pink, and pressed together.

“People think wellness is about perfection,” the woman said. “But it’s really about alignment, choosing you without shame.”

Nicole leaned her hip against the counter and watched the way the light caught in the woman’s hair. Blonde, loose waves that were chopped in a deliberate bob. She wore a pale cream blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Nothing tugged or wrinkled when she moved.

The woman sat in a low chair, slightly angled toward the interviewer, her hands loosely folded in her lap. One leg crossed over the other, her red-bottom heel hovering just above the floor. The set around her looked more like a living room than a studio: a glass coffee table, books, and a tall plant near the window. Daylight filtered in through the tall windows behind her.

Founder. CEO. Katrina Whittle.

“Our best results come from people who really commit,” TV Katrina continued. “Who let us see the full picture, not just the parts they’re proud of.”

The Bloomwell logo glowed faintly in the corner of the screen, a pink hibiscus flower opening and closing like a mouth.

Nicole found herself nodding.

She’d watched Katrina Whittle for years: morning shows, panels, and interview clips that always ran during the evening news. Bloomwell always felt like it belonged to another planet, but it lived in the same city as the rest of them: Robinswood. The campus sat far enough away from downtown to feel separate. The building sat silver and conspicuous on the rural side of town, like a shiny coin dropped into a field of grass.

“You’re watching that lady again?”

Nicole startled slightly and turned. Her mom stood in the doorway, already dressed for work, keys in hand. She wore an old Tweety Bird CNA scrub top, the collar faded from years of washing, paired with white tennis shoes that squeaked when she walked. Her hair was pulled into the tight, practical braided beehive she usually wore under wigs. She tugged a cap down over it with one hand.

“She was on,” Nicole said, like that explained everything.

Her mom walked into the kitchen and poured coffee into a travel mug. The kitchen counter was cluttered with unopened mail and coupons. A chipped ceramic bowl held loose change collected over the years.

Her mom glanced at the screen, then back at Nicole. She raised an eyebrow. “She always talks like that?”

Nicole nodded. “Pretty much.”

Her mother snorted softly. “Must be nice to be so rich.”

On the TV, Katrina Whittle laughed at something the interviewer said. Nicole watched the way Katrina’s eyes crinkled. Nicole had read about that detail once in an online article: “How to smile without tension.” Real smiles showed up around the eyes–not just the lips.

Nicole had stood in front of her bathroom mirror, trying it on herself. She’d lift the corners of her mouth, then try to soften the rest of her face. Much harder than it looked. She started interviewing with Bloomwell a month ago.

“If you ever get in there, you won’t have to bust your ass like this,” her mom said, gesturing to her nurse’s outfit.

“I know,” Nicole said.

It wasn’t easy to get that kind of job with a two-year degree. Nicole knew that, but she also knew what she’d learned through watching Katrina over the years: how to sit still under bright lights, how to sound sure without being sure, how to make something feel possible just by talking about it long enough.

The TV shifted to a Bloomwell commercial: Katrina walked through a glassy space that looked part laboratory, part showroom. White shelves stacked with pastel-colored supplement bottles sat like art in a museum behind her.

The music picked up, and the scene changed. New Wave music. This time, Katrina strolled through an office, greeting employees.

She stopped at the desk of a man with a clipboard in front of him. Dark curls of hair framed his face. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms exposed.

On the kitchen counter, Nicole’s phone buzzed. A notification.

She didn’t reach for it. She leaned forward the way she always did when this part of the commercial came on. When he came on.

TV Katrina said something to the man and rested her hand briefly on his shoulder before moving on. He smiled after her, then looked back down at his work.

The man faded into the background as the logo appeared again. Background music crowded out a voiceover announcing Bloomwell’s plans to build a second campus.

Live well. Bloomwell.

The commercial ended.

Nicole felt something settle low in her chest. She switched the TV off.

She couldn’t count how many times she’d sat at the small desk in her room, rewriting the same essay prompt for her Bloomwell, trying to sound like herself but better.

Tell us why Bloomwell matters to you.

That had been the only application question. They hadn’t even asked about past jobs, which was good, because she didn’t have any.

She applied for the Administrative Coordinator position, an entry-level role where experience shouldn’t matter in theory (in practice, it was a different story).

Her phone buzzed again. Nicole picked it up.

“Who’s that?” her mom said.

“I don’t know,” Nicole said quickly. She swiped to unlock her phone.

An email from Bloomwell sat there, unopened.

SUBJECT LINE: Thank you for your job application…

Probably another rejection.

Her mother watched her face change. “What is it?”

Nicole didn’t answer. Her heart pounded. Swallowing, she opened it.

Following our recent conversations, we’re happy to extend an offer for the Administrative Coordinator role at Bloomwell.

“Oh my god,” Nicole said. “Oh my god.”

“What is it?” her mom asked again.

“Mom, look!”

Her mom stepped closer, leaning in to see the screen in Nicole’s hand. She let out a sound, half laugh, half gasp. “Nicole.”

Nicole laughed too, breathless. Disbelieving. “They chose me.”

Her mom squeezed her arm. “You did it,” she said. “I told you that you would.”

Nicole thought about the questions they’d asked last time. She hadn’t been prepared for any of them. They didn’t ask her anything about spreadsheets, software, or certifications. They asked her where she saw herself in five years. What she looked for in a long-term role. How she handled receiving feedback.

She’d answered honestly… and also what they wanted to hear.

The screen glowed in her palm, warm against her brown fingertips. The kitchen seemed to close around them, the refrigerator hummed, and her mom’s hand was still on her arm.

Bloomwell had chosen her.

Nicole closed her eyes for a second, smiling. The TV glow was gone now, but she could still feel Bloomwell’s presence, like an afterimage.

When Nicole opened her eyes, her thumb was already hovering over Reply.