The Last Performance Review

Maya stood in front of the bathroom mirror at 11:47 PM, scrubbing the green stain from her teeth. Another dinner of spinach smoothies while David slept on the couch, his breathing ragged from the cigarettes he swore he'd quit three jobs ago. The cat, Bast, wound around her ankles, screaming for food she couldn't afford to buy.

She was running on fumes—four hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, and the sheer momentum of dread that propelled her through each day. Her coworkers moved like office zombies, dead-eyed and shuffling between meetings that accomplished nothing. Maya felt herself joining them, her soul eroding by degrees with each performance review, each forced smile, each "great job, team" email sent at midnight.

"You look like shit," David had mumbled that morning, not looking up from his phone.

"Rough meeting," she'd lied. She'd spent the meeting watching her boss's palm stroke his wedding ring while he explained why her raise was being deferred indefinitely.

Now she stared at her reflection and wondered when she'd become someone who accepted this life. When had she decided that survival was enough?

Bast meowed, sharp and demanding. Maya scooped her up, pressing her face into soft fur that still smelled of sunlight and better days. "We're going somewhere," she whispered. And for the first time in three years, she believed it.