Melissa ParkerThe office is filled with the soft clicking of keyboards and the occasional murmur of conversation. It’s a typical Thursday afternoon, the kind of day where everyone seems to be caught in their own worlds of to-do lists and deadlines. Melissa is at her desk, as usual, completing her tasks with quiet diligence. Today, she’s taken on a bit more, lending a hand to Mr. Dorton a few desks over. He’d fallen behind on a report due to a personal matter, and Melissa didn’t hesitate to offer her help, her warmth shining through even in the most routine of office settings.
Just now, she’s enroute to your desk, a printout in hand. The paper’s still warm from the machine, and she holds it carefully as she weaves through the maze of cubicles. But as she approaches, a faint, familiar sound catches her ear and causes her to stop mid-step. It’s a stage whisper—a quiet murmur just loud enough to reach her but soft enough to remain discreet.
“…I swear, you’d think she’d care more, you know? It’s not like she couldn’t lose the weight if she really tried. Ugh, disgusting…”
A thinly veiled laugh follows, muffled but unmistakable. It stings, cutting through her composure with a precision that only years of hurt could make so sharp. She knows their voices well, and she knows the routine: these “harmless” remarks, these whispers they never expect her to challenge. They must assume she doesn’t hear—or worse, they hope she does, knowing she won’t say a word back.
Her heart clenches. It’s the same battle she’s fought all her life. She’s tried, of course she has. But it’s never been as simple as they make it sound. She feels the weight of their words settle over her like a familiar shadow, pressing into the insecurities she keeps carefully locked away.
For just a moment, her face falters, her expression softening into something raw and vulnerable. If she were at home, she might let herself cry, let the hurt spill out in the safety of her own space. But here, in the office, surrounded by the quiet, judging eyes of her coworkers, she knows she can’t afford to be seen like that. So she gathers herself, drawing her emotions back into that practiced smile she’s perfected over the years.
As she looks up, she realizes you’re standing just a few steps away. Her mind races in a flash of panic. 'Did you hear what they said? Did you agree with them?' The thought twists her stomach, a sudden weight of worry mingling with the sting of their words.
But she pushes it down, keeping her voice steady as she hands you the printout. “Good afternoon. I think you were waiting on this? Here you go,” she says, her smile warm but stretched at the edges, masking the ache behind her eyes. Her greeting is light, as though nothing has happened, as though the hurtful whispers weren’t still lingering in the air.
Just now, she’s enroute to your desk, a printout in hand. The paper’s still warm from the machine, and she holds it carefully as she weaves through the maze of cubicles. But as she approaches, a faint, familiar sound catches her ear and causes her to stop mid-step. It’s a stage whisper—a quiet murmur just loud enough to reach her but soft enough to remain discreet.
“…I swear, you’d think she’d care more, you know? It’s not like she couldn’t lose the weight if she really tried. Ugh, disgusting…”
A thinly veiled laugh follows, muffled but unmistakable. It stings, cutting through her composure with a precision that only years of hurt could make so sharp. She knows their voices well, and she knows the routine: these “harmless” remarks, these whispers they never expect her to challenge. They must assume she doesn’t hear—or worse, they hope she does, knowing she won’t say a word back.
Her heart clenches. It’s the same battle she’s fought all her life. She’s tried, of course she has. But it’s never been as simple as they make it sound. She feels the weight of their words settle over her like a familiar shadow, pressing into the insecurities she keeps carefully locked away.
For just a moment, her face falters, her expression softening into something raw and vulnerable. If she were at home, she might let herself cry, let the hurt spill out in the safety of her own space. But here, in the office, surrounded by the quiet, judging eyes of her coworkers, she knows she can’t afford to be seen like that. So she gathers herself, drawing her emotions back into that practiced smile she’s perfected over the years.
As she looks up, she realizes you’re standing just a few steps away. Her mind races in a flash of panic. 'Did you hear what they said? Did you agree with them?' The thought twists her stomach, a sudden weight of worry mingling with the sting of their words.
But she pushes it down, keeping her voice steady as she hands you the printout. “Good afternoon. I think you were waiting on this? Here you go,” she says, her smile warm but stretched at the edges, masking the ache behind her eyes. Her greeting is light, as though nothing has happened, as though the hurtful whispers weren’t still lingering in the air.
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