Dead Pool

The rooftop bar overlooked the city skyline, but Maya kept her eyes on the tumbler of gin in front of her. The condensation was weeping down the glass like it knew something she didn't.

"You're drinking again," said Daniel, sliding onto the stool beside her. Not quite a friend anymore—that particular relationship had drowned somewhere between his promotion and her demotion. Now he was just the person who signed her timesheet.

"It's Friday," she said. "Also, I just found out about the pool."

Daniel went still. The ice clinked against his glass as he set it down. "What pool?"

"The dead pool. The one where everyone put money on when I'd finally break." Maya's voice was steady, which surprised her. "Twenty bucks said I'd crack by June. You went for September."

Daniel's face did something complicated—a flicker of shame, quickly covered by the practiced neutrality of corporate management. "It wasn't like that."

"Wasn't it?" Maya signaled the bartender for another. "Wasn't it exactly like that?"

The truth was, she hadn't slept through the night since the restructuring. Three months of waking up at 3 AM to stare at the ceiling, her heart hammering like something trapped in a cage. Her therapist called it adjustment disorder. Maya called it watching everything she'd built dissolve into nothing while people like Daniel placed bets on how long she'd keep showing up.

"It was just—" Daniel started, then stopped. "Jesus, Maya. It's been hard for all of us."

"Has it?" She turned to look at him for the first time. His shirt was pressed, his watch expensive, his eyes sliding away from hers like water off oil. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're doing just fine."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said quietly.

"No one ever does." She picked up her fresh drink. "That's the whole problem, isn't it?"