Water at the Top of the Pyramid

Sarah stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her corner office, watching the sunset paint the sky in bruising shades of orange. Twenty-eight floors up, she'd finally reached the apex of the corporate pyramid, but the air grew thinner with each promotion.

"You made it," her mentor had told her three years ago, pressing a key card into her palm. "The view's better from up here."

He'd left out that you could see everyone below you, but no one could really see you anymore.

Her phone buzzed—a group chat notification from friends planning a weekend trip to the lake house. She stared at it until the screen dimmed, thumb hovering over the keyboard. It had been six months since she'd seen any of them outside of a company holiday party. The pyramid demanded sacrifices.

"Sarah?" A junior analyst stood in her doorway, holding a manila folder. His name was David, new enough that he still made eye contact. "The Henderson account numbers—they're not adding up."

She sighed. "Leave them on my desk. I'll review them tonight."

He paused. "It's almost seven. You should go home."

She glanced at her water bottle—still full from this morning, condensation tracing paths down the plastic like tears. "Just one more thing."

He left. She turned back to the window, where the orange light had faded to gray. The building reflected her own silhouette back at her—sharp angles, hollow spaces, someone climbing something that kept getting taller.

Her phone buzzed again. A single text from David, the junior analyst: *Get some water. You look dehydrated.*

She opened her bottom drawer and pulled out the bag of orange slices she'd packed that morning, forgotten in meetings and conference calls. The fruit sat suspended in syrup, preserving something sweet that she hadn't made time to taste.

The pyramid waited, patient and permanent. But for the first time in years, Sarah picked up her phone and typed: *I'll be there.*

Then she opened her water bottle and drank.