The Bull Market of Goodbye

Marcus found himself at thirty-four with a corner office he'd stopped wanting three years ago. The quarterly review spreadsheets blurred together—rows of numbers that supposedly measured success but really just measured how well a person could pretend to care about things that didn't matter.

His phone buzzed. Elena.

They hadn't spoken since the incident at the holiday party. Since she'd called him out in front of everyone for being a company man, for drinking the Kool-Aid, for becoming exactly the kind of corporate sellout they'd sworn they'd never be when they started as juniors together. You're full of bull, Marc, she'd said. You don't even believe what you're selling anymore.

She wasn't wrong. That was the worst part.

Marcus had gone back to his condo that night and poured himself a drink, then another. His cat, Barnaby—a rescue with one ear and trust issues—had headbutted his shin at 3 AM, demanding breakfast. The animal's simple expectations had felt like an accusation. Barnaby didn't care about revenue projections or optics or the careful performance of competence. Barnaby cared about breakfast and warmth and sometimes, if he was in the mood, sitting on a human's chest while purring like a small engine.

Now, three months later, Elena wanted to meet. At a coffee shop. Public. Safe.

She was already there when he arrived, looking like herself—sharp edges, no makeup, that direct gaze that made him feel transparent.

"I'm leaving," she said before he could order. "The company. The city. All of it."

Marcus felt something hollow open in his chest. "Where?"

"Portland. My sister's got a spare room. I'm going to figure out what I actually give a damn about." She studied his face. "You could come too."

The offer hung between them, impossibly heavy.

"I can't," he heard himself say. "I've got—the mortgage, the promotion."

"The bull you've been feeding yourself," she corrected, not unkindly. "You think staying makes you responsible. I think it makes you a ghost."

He went back to the office afterward. Back to the spreadsheets, the performance reviews, the slow accumulation of nothing that mattered. Back to an empty condo where Barnaby would greet him with expectations he could actually meet.

That night, Marcus opened the letter from HR about his own promotion—Senior Director of Strategic Initiatives, whatever that meant. He'd wanted this once. Had worked years for it.

He put the letter down. Barnaby jumped onto the desk and knocked it onto the floor, then sat on the keyboard and stared at him with something that looked judgment adjacent.

"Yeah," Marcus said to the cat. "I know."

Outside, the city hummed with the weight of everyone pretending to be somewhere they weren't yet. And for the first time in a long time, Marcus let himself admit he wasn't sure he'd ever arrive.