The Wellness Coordinator's Last Day

Margaret stood by the office pool, watching the water shimmer like crushed diamonds under the fluorescent lights. This was the crown jewel of Serenity Corp's headquarters—the meditation pool where employees were supposed to find their center between quarterly meetings and performance reviews.

"You're going to miss this," said Keith, the VP of Something Vague, extending his palm for a handshake that never came. He'd been pulling this routine since the acquisition announcement—treating her like a beloved houseplant being left behind during a move.

Margaret had spent seven years as the Corporate Wellness Coordinator, herding executives through vitamin IV drips and mindfulness sessions they'd rather skip. She'd watched them chase the corporate sphinx—profit margins that shifted like riddles in the desert—while she filled out spreadsheets about employee happiness metrics that nobody actually read.

"Did you hear about the new initiative?" Keith asked, already moving toward the elevator. "We're calling it 'The Bull Run.' Stock options tied to personal wellness goals. Step counts affect your equity vesting."

Margaret laughed, and it sounded like glass breaking. "That's not wellness, Keith. That's just gamified anxiety."

The elevator doors closed on his confused expression. She should have felt triumphant—this was her resignation moment, after all—but instead, she felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out her insides and left only the professional shell.

Her phone buzzed. Her ex-husband, asking if she'd heard about the reorganization. He'd left her three years ago for someone who didn't spend Sunday nights answering emails about the company retreat.

She walked to her desk, where a bottle of vitamin D supplements sat next to her plant—a ficus that had survived three reorganizations and one corporate merger. The plant was leaning toward the window, desperate for real light.

"Yeah," she whispered to it. "I know."

Margaret deleted the draft email she'd composed—something professional and graceful about pursuing new opportunities—and typed instead: "I quit because I'd rather be lonely than this."

She sent it. Then she walked past the pool, past the meditation pods, past the conference room named after philosophical concepts (The Zen Room, The Flow Space), and pushed through the glass doors into actual sunlight. The vitamin D bottle was still in her pocket. She'd need it now that she wouldn't be getting her weekly IV drip.

Her palm smarted from gripping her personal effects—a plant, a coffee mug, and three years of unread wellness journals. Outside, the city waited, messy and indifferent and absolutely perfect.

"Thank fuck," she said, and meant it.