His face softens. “That’s shame, not anger,” he explains. His voice is soft, patient. “She’s giving you space because she feels guilty, not because she wants you gone.”
I don’t know how to accept that.
Shame. Guilt. These are not emotions I am used to receiving from other people. I am used to being the one who feels shame, the one who carries guilt. I am used to apologizing for existing, for taking up space, for needing things.
The idea that Maeve might be the one who is ashamed—that she might be avoiding me not because I did something wrong, but becauseshedid—does not fit into the framework of my understanding.
But Kieran’s gaze is steady, his eyes holding a kindness that feels alien. It does not ask for anything. It does not demand that I perform gratitude or forgiveness or understanding. It just looks at me, and waits, and lets me be exactly where I am.
“Maeve doesn’t want to fire you,” he says again, slowly. He enunciates each word, as if he is trying to drill them into a part of me that has stopped believing. “She wants the exact opposite.”
“Opposite?” I whisper.
“You’ll see.”
My heart gives a frantic, uneven thud.
I don’t know if that means something good or something worse.
He gets to his feet. “She’s actually asking for you. In her office.”
A cold dread washes through me.
“Why?” My voice comes out weak, uneven. It falters on the word. “What did I do?”
I search the past week for something—a mistake, a missed spot, a word out of place. I mopped the floors. I wiped the counters. I took out the trash. I did everything the way I was told.
Kieran sees the terror on my face. I cannot hide it. I have spent my whole life hiding terror, but this time it is too big, too loud, too close to the surface. My hands are shaking. My breath is shallow.
His own face softens with concern. The crease between his brows deepens. His mouth pulls down at the corners. “No, hey, it’s not like that. I swear.” He holds his hands up, palms out, the universal gesture ofI am not a threat. “She just wants to talk. I promise.”
But promises are just words.
I have learned that too many times.
Yet… I force myself to stand.
My legs feel unsteady. The ground shifts beneath me, or maybe that is just my body, my blood, the thousand tiny systems that are all screaming at me to run. My hands are clammy. I wipe them on my pants, but the dampness does not go away.
I turn toward the back hallway. Each step is heavy, as if I’m walking toward my own execution. The hallway is narrow. The walls are close. I have walked this hallway a hundred times, a thousand times, but today it feels different. Today it feels like a throat I am being swallowed into.
Maeve’s office door is slightly ajar.
My heart is pounding. I can’t separate the act of entering this room from the fear that I won’t be allowed to return tomorrow.
Kieran gives me a gentle nod forward, as if he senses the flight instinct screaming in my veins.
I take a deep breath and step inside.
Maeve is standing in front of her desk, waiting.
We stare at each other for a long moment. The air is thick with unspoken words. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. She is searching for something—a place to start, a way in. I know that feeling. I have stood at the edge of so many sentences, trying to find the door.
Then the words rush out of her.
“I’m sorry.”
I freeze.
