Her expression shifts to something sympathetic, and I hate it. I don't need sympathy. I need clients who don't change their minds every fifteen minutes.
"You okay?" she asks, wrapping her scarf around her neck. December in Central Texas usually means mild weather with occasional days in the low forties and today Silverton, Texas has been a brisk forty-six degrees and dropping with the sun.
"Fine," I reply automatically. "Just another late night with this client."
Her face scrunches as she steps further into my office. "They changed direction again?" She moves closer to my desk, her purse strap sliding down her arm. "Want me to stay and help?” Her keys jingle as she drops them into her pocket. "I can order us takeout and help organize the drive files."
I shake my head. "No, it’s okay.” I wave her off. “But at this point, I’m convinced they’re my villain origin story.”
She hesitates, then nods. "Well, don't stay too late. And don't forget you have that meeting with Archer Media first thing tomorrow morning."
Great. Another reminder that I'll be running on fumes and caffeine for an eight AM meeting.
"Got it. Have a good night, Zoe."
After she leaves, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes for just a moment. The quiet hum of the office settles around me. The soft whir of the air conditioning, keyboards clacking as the few remaining dedicated souls finish their work.
I open my eyes and pull up more of their files. Their logo stares back at me, taunting me with its impending transformation from "sophisticated and timeless" to whatever buzzword they've latched onto this week.
My phone chirps with a text. Emily again.
We're saving you some tacos. Don't work past 9 or I'm calling in a wellness check.
Em
I smile.
Threats will get you nowhere
Her response is immediate.
They'll get me a sister who isn't married to her laptop!
Em
I ignore that and set my phone down on the edge of my desk. Time to focus. The sooner I figure out how to satisfy my client's ever-changing vision, the sooner I can go home.
I pull up their competitor analysis and start making notes. What exactly does "youthful direction" mean to a company that sells enterprise software? Are they expecting TikTok dances about data integration? Maybe a rap about their API capabilities?
My stomach growls, reminding me that lunch was a sad desk salad around noon. I reach into my drawer and pull out an emergency granola bar, the last survivor of a box I bought weeks ago. It's slightly stale, but beggars can't be choosers.
As I chew, I stare at the mood board I created for their original concept. Clean lines. Professional blue tones. Aspirational imagery of diverse professionals looking productive and fulfilled. All of it is carefully crafted to position them as the solution to every middle manager's workflow problems.
Now they want "youthful." Whatever that means.
I close the mood board and open a new document. Maybe if I start fresh instead of trying to retrofit their old concept...
My phone lights up again. This time it's a notification from Instagram. Probably Emily posting their tacos with some passive-aggressive caption about missing team members.
Against my better judgment, I click into it.
It's not Emily.
It's Ethan.
My heart does that stupid thing where it skips a beat before plummeting into my ass. His name on my screen shouldn't affect me like this anymore; since he decided he "wasn't ready for commitment."
The notification shows he's tagged me in a photo. Which is weird, because we haven't spoken since I threw his collector edition Star Wars posters out the window.
