The meeting room is cold and sterile, the air conditioning humming softly in the background. My supervisor sits across from me, a polite smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Thanks for coming in,” she starts, and I nod, trying to mask the anxiety churning inside me.
She dives into the review, pointing out missed deadlines, the hours I’ve been late or absent. Each word feels like a blow, a reminder of my failures.
“We need to see improvement,” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.
“I understand,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
The meeting drags on, the weight of her expectations pressing down on me. I promise to do better, to be more reliable, but deep down, I’m not sure how.
When it finally ends, I leave the room feeling drained, the reality of my situation heavier than ever.
Back at my desk, I try to focus on work, but the landlord’s visit looms large in my mind.
I can’t shake the feeling that he’s waiting for me to fail, to give him the excuse he needs to evict me.
As the day wears on, I find myself slipping further into my thoughts, the anxiety building with each passing hour.
And when I finally leave the office, the weight of the world follows me home, a constant reminder of the challenges I’ve yet to face.
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