Palm Reading at Mercer

The spinach sat limp in Maya's Tupperware, wilting under the fluorescent glare of the breakroom. Three years at Mercer & Associates, and she'd finally mastered the art of looking busy while contemplating resignation.

"Maya, need you in Conference B," Greg called, not looking up from his phone. The firm's newest partner—a man whose entire personality seemed engineered by a workplace optimization algorithm.

She pushed the spinach aside. The remnants of yesterday's meeting still clung to the carpet: someone's dog, a hypoallergenic doodle brought in for "emotional support purposes," had chewed through a client's leather portfolio. The dog's owner, a junior associate named Tyler, had spent the morning apologizing to no one in particular.

"We're going to have to let Tyler go," Greg said when she entered. "His numbers are down. And the dog incident..."

Maya stared at him. In the year since her mother's death, her hair had started coming out in the shower. She'd started counting the strands each morning, a private ritual of measurement. Forty-two today. Forty-five yesterday.

"His numbers are fine," she said. "He handled the Harrison acquisition."

"Barely." Greg leaned back, arms behind his head—a posture of entitled confidence that made something in her chest tighten. "Look, I need someone who can bear the weight. No pun intended."

The bear reference landed awkwardly. Last week, drunk at the holiday party, Greg had cornered her near the coat check, delivered a monologue about his father's taxidermy collection. The mounted bear in their foyer, he'd whispered, his breath hot against her ear. The way its glass eyes seemed to follow you. The way its fur felt surprisingly human.

She'd gone home with him that night. Something about the raw honesty of his loneliness, or maybe just the gin.

"I'll handle it," she said now, turning toward the door.

"Maya."

She paused.

"You okay? You seem... distant."

She thought about the palm reader she'd visited on impulse during lunch. A cramped storefront between the dry cleaner and the vape shop. The woman had taken her hand, traced the lines with a thumb rough from labor.

"You're at a crossroads," the woman had said. "But you already know that. You're waiting for permission to choose."

"What if I choose wrong?"

"Honey." The woman's laugh was dry. "That's not how this works. You choose, then you make it right."

In the conference room, Greg was still watching her, waiting. The dog barked somewhere down the hall. Outside the window, between the skyscrapers, she could see the tops of palm trees swaying in a wind she couldn't feel.

"Actually," Maya said, "Tyler's not the one who should be worried about."

She'd already drafted her resignation letter. It sat in her desk drawer, beside her mother's old compact, beside the hair tie she'd stopped using because her ponytail was too thin now.

The spinach could wait. So could Greg. So could the future she'd been afraid to choose.

Some stories, she realized, you don't just survive—you walk away from them first.