Page 84 of Glitched Play

At least... I don't think I was.

The office is quiet again.

I stare at the closed door for a long time and open a blank document.

Title: ???

Problem: Maci Hart

Under it, I type one sentence.

Objective: Determine why one employee has rendered every existing system unexpectedly ineffective.

I stare at the words.

Then, for the first time in my professional career...

I have absolutely no idea where to begin.

sixteen

. . .

Maci

Letter 91: Rune

Sometimes the best way to know where you belong is to notice who makes room for you without being asked.

The letter is still in my purse. It’s Friday and I haven’t mailed it, haven’t thrown it away and I have not forgotten about it. I’m procrastinating.

It’s tucked into the inside pocket beside my lip gloss, emergency ibuprofen, and one granola bar that has been through enough emotional trauma to deserve its own support group. Every morning this week, I’ve told myself I’ll mail it. Every afternoon, I’ve passed Dara’s outgoing mail pile three times and I kept walking like the envelope has somehow gained fifty pounds in my bag.

I tell myself it’s because I’m busy.

That’s partly true. Synatrix has consumed my entire week in the best and most exhausting way possible. Between e-football launch prep, rookie-program implementation, and Witt’s apparent belief that problems are love languages, my brain has been running at full speed since Monday morning.

But busy isn’t the real reason.

The real reason is that mailing the letter feels like choosing.

And I’m not ready to admit what I’m choosing.

I mean, is there anything to choose?

I’m in Witt’s office late afternoon, sitting at the side table built into the side of the room while we go over updated launch projections. This has become weirdly normal over the last few days. Me with my laptop open, Witt standing near the glass wall with a tablet in his hand, Dara occasionally appearing with updates and iced coffee like a corporate fairy godmother.

After the gala, things were awkward at first. Professional and somewhere along the way this week, we became comfortable, which may be worse.

Witt hasn’t kissed me again. He hasn’t even come close, and if I’m being honest, that probably should make my life easier. It does not. Instead, it makes every almost-look, every brush of our hands, every quiet moment in a room together feel like an unfinished sentence we’re both pretending not to read.

“The mentor dashboard needs one more filter,” I say, turning my laptop toward him. “New users should be able to sort by play style, and personality type, not just skill level.”

Witt studies the screen, eyes moving quickly over the mock-up. “Aggressive. Strategic. Personality matches. Unique.”

“Exactly.”

“Add casual.”