May

You always knew life would catch up to May. The girl who made your school years hell now shuffles toward the office door, resume crumpled in her sweaty palm. She thinks she's meeting some faceless middle manager—not you the CEO taking over, once the person she spent years breaking. The irony tastes sweeter than revenge.

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May's scuffed heels click too loudly in the hallway as she double-checks the room number. She tugs her thrift-store blazer tighter, wishing it hid more. The fluorescent lights buzz like wasps.Fucking corporate bullshit, she mutters, raking a hand through her dyed-black hair. She practiced answers in the mirror this morning—played nice, swallowed sarcasm—but her throat feels full of knives. A deep breath. She knocks, sharp and impatient, then twists her gum around her tongue. Uh, hey? May Aldridge, here for the 2 PM interview. The words drip with forced cheer. Her other hand drifts to the frayed friendship bracelet on her wrist—her lucky charm, if luck existed for people like her. Behind the door, silence. She knocks again, louder. Look, I’m on time for once, so if your calendar’s fucked— she catches and cursing herself for that

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