Page 1 of Back to You
Do not faint.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on the slides. On the data projected across the screen, all the numbers I spent so long gathering and formatting and triple-checking. On my manager’s face as she scrutinizes my work, her features hard and unyielding, withholding approval.
Don’t you dare faint,I will myself, even as the numbers swim before my vision.Not right now. Just wait until this meeting is over.
“Any questions?” I ask, and I’m glad my voice holds firm, even as my knees threaten to give out beneath me. It’s hard to tell if I’m lightheaded from exhaustion or hunger or a fun mixture of both. I’ve slept a grand total of two hours in the last couple of days; it’s been a nauseating blur of back-to-back meetings, no lunch breaks, not even water breaks. I left my chair only to sprint to the bathroom and back. I existed outside the office only to take the bus home and shower.
“Many,” my manager says, and my heart sinks.
When I first met Tara at my job interview, sitting in the very same conference room we’re in right now, I wanted to be just like her. She was the perfect picture of the accomplished investment banker, with her sleek bob and black blazer. She looked so successful and superior, I had the sudden thought:Her parents must brag about her all the time.And for a while, it seemed like I was on the right track to becoming her; she had graduated from Stanford summa cum laude, just like I had, and we were both economics majors. When she smiledand congratulated me at the end of the interview, I thought I could glimpse my future: brilliant, blazing, beautiful.
She isn’t smiling at all right now.
“You’re going to need to redo this whole pitch deck,” she says briskly. “I’ve made a list of notes; I’ve just emailed them over to you. Can you make the changes before we present to the investors tomorrow morning?”
We both know it’s not a question. It’s a command.
A loud roaring sound fills my ears, and I have to steady myself against the nearest table.Don’t faint, don’t faint, just keep pushing through.But I’ve already been pushing through. I spent countless hours working on this pitch deck, clicking back and forth between different spreadsheets, cursing under my breath when one of the company logos moved out of alignment, triggering a domino effect across the slides.
“Of course, Tara,” I say. I swallow. “I’ll stay behind to redo everything tonight.”
“Great.” She stands up and swings her Prada purse over her shoulder. “Remember to turn the lights off when you leave.”
She doesn’t need to tell me; I’m always the last to leave the office.
I wait until the door has swung shut behind her before I let myself collapse into a chair. The drab gray office walls spin hopelessly around me. There’s a tightness in my chest as I fumble around in my tote bag for the only food I have: a packet of chocolate almonds I bought in a rush this morning.
I could live on these, I’m not even kidding.Luke’s voice floats back to me. His gentle tone, his bright, contagious laughter. I remember watching him tearing open a packet of chocolate almonds years ago, holding them out for his friends to try. I made a note that it was something he liked. I made a note of everything he liked, as if I might one day find thecourage to buy him a gift, even though I never actually did anything.
I pop a chocolate almond into my mouth. It’s delightfully sweet, the way nostalgic childhood treats are. With the packet balanced in my lap, I refresh my emails to read over Tara’s notes. I feel a terrible, crushing pressure; there are so many notes, even more than I’d imagined. New graphs I have to create, new formulas I’ll need to apply. I’ll be here all night. I grab a handful of almonds without taking my eyes off the screen and shove them into my mouth, and one of the almonds goes down the wrong way.
I feel it lodge itself inside my windpipe, hard as a pebble.
I try to breathe. Can’t.
Panic rises hard and fast through me. I push myself off the chair, making terrible hacking noises like a cat.
No,I think desperately.Stop this.
Everyone claims that when you die, you’re meant to see the past flash before your eyes. I wait for the montage to start. I thought I would see myself walking across the stage as valedictorian; shrieking with relief when my Stanford acceptance letter came in; holding up the International Mathematical Olympiad award; presenting a report card full of A’s to my parents; celebrating my first official job offer from a Big Four.
At least then I could’ve convinced myself it was all worth it. I had worked hard and done everything right. I’d ignored my desire to study English and chosen the stable, practical, lucrative path. I might not have love but I have a prestigious job; I might not have a thrilling social life but I have an impressive résumé. Who cares if I’m not happy as long as I’m successful? That’s what I wanted. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
But in my final moments, I see only a brief, depressing glimpse of the future: my corpse lying awkwardly on thecarpeted floor, the packet of chocolate almonds spilled around me, when my coworkers come into the office the next morning. Someone would gasp in horror and call HR, or maybe the janitor, to clean up the chocolate. Tara would be annoyed that I hadn’t finished updating the pitch deck in time. IT would be annoyed about having to disable all my employee accounts. By the next evening, the company would have uploaded a new job posting, seeking someone with at least five years of work experience who “excels in a fast-paced environment.” By the next week, most people would’ve forgotten about me already.
Regret fills my lungs.
No,I think again, scream it inside my head.No, not like this.
Give me another chance. Let me do it differently.
I can hear myself wheezing, my frantic but futile gasps for oxygen. My own heartbeat hammers loud and hard in my ears like a violent machine—
Then everything goes quiet.
When I open my eyes, the world is white.
I’m fairly sure I’m dead, but then the whiteness solidifies into recognizable, real-world things: large light fixtures humming overhead; a board at the front of a massive hall, on which plain PowerPoint slides have been projected; hard beige seats; rows of people sitting down, typing or scrolling through identical PowerPoint slides on their laptop screens.
