The Glass Ceiling

The hat sat on Marcus's desk like a judgment — a fedora, ridiculous and anachronistic, exactly the kind of thing he'd wear to appear more interesting than he actually was. Elena had warned me about him three years ago, when we were still something resembling friends, back before the promotion, before the email chain that revealed Marcus had been taking credit for my work while undermining me to upper management.

'I'm just saying,' Elena had said over drinks, 'he wears a hat indoors. What else do you need to know?'

Now, watching Marcus accept the partnership that should have been mine, I thought about water. Specifically, how drowning is supposedly peaceful once you stop fighting it. The office felt like it was filling with it — invisible, rising past my ankles, my waist, my chest. Everyone else seemed to be breathing normally, typing their emails, scheduling their meetings, while I alone struggled against the pressure in my lungs.

Marcus caught my eye across the conference room. He grinned, that same practiced, empty smile, and tipped his hat.

The water reached my chin. I thought about Elena, who'd left the firm six months ago for a startup, who'd sent me a text last week: 'You should come with me. The water's fine over here.'

I typed my resignation letter, watching my fingers move through the liquid that no one else seemed to notice. And as I hit send, something peculiar happened: the water began to recede, draining away until I was sitting in a dry room, breathing air that finally tasted like my own.