The clock ticked quietly in the corner of the office, a reminder of how long this meeting had dragged on. I sat there, my hands tucked under the table, trying to avoid my supervisor’s gaze as they paced back and forth, their voice a monotone of disappointment and frustration.
“You’ll never work in this industry again if you cross me.” The words were delivered with a calmness that belied their severity.
My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel a flush rising from my neck to my cheeks. It wasn’t the first time they’d made a threat like this, but it was the first time it felt personal.
“I—I didn’t mean to,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
They paused, looking at me like I was a nuisance rather than a person.
“That’s what everyone says when they mess up,” they replied, turning away to scribble something in their notebook.
I could feel the eyes of my coworkers on me, though they pretended to be focused on their screens. No one would meet my gaze.
The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable, until finally, my supervisor spoke again, ushering us back to our tasks with a dismissive wave of their hand.
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