The Cat Under the Desk

Elena stared at the thick black cable snaking across the data center floor like a judgment. Twenty years of climbing corporate ladders, and here she was: forty-two, divorced, watching a server rack blink at her through the darkness.

She'd come in at 3 AM, unable to sleep. The office was never truly empty anyway—there was always the stray cat that wandered in from the alley, currently curled under her desk, purring like it owned the place. She'd started leaving food out three months ago, during the merger talks that never seemed to end.

"You're better at this than me," she whispered to the cat, whose golden eyes opened briefly before dismissing her.

She rose to get water from the cooler, her reflection in the darkened window catching her off guard—crow's-feet she pretended didn't exist, eyes that had seen too many reorgs, too many colleagues packed into boxes like obsolete hardware. Her grandmother's words surfaced unbidden: *Never let them see you sweat.* So she'd learned to wear confidence like a hat, adjusting it daily until it fit perfectly.

The new VP had called yesterday with demands about project timelines—complete bullshit, honestly, but she'd nodded and taken notes. Her father had called it bull when she'd accepted this promotion six years ago, warning about the cost of ambition. He'd been right, in his way.

The cat stretched, stood, and wound around her ankles, marking her with insistence. This was what she had left: small creatures who needed nothing but presence, a job that drained her, and the quiet realization that some roads didn't lead where you thought they would.

She sat back down, opened the terminal, and began the work that would cost her weekend, her dignity, possibly her soul. The cat jumped into her lap, heavy and warm, and for a moment she just breathed.

Tomorrow she'd update her résumé. Tonight, she'd let herself be exactly where she was.