9.00 a.m.


    This was an ungodly hour to organize a meeting, I thought. Scratch that - when you work in corporate, any hour is an ungodly hour to have a meeting. The lower half of my body was falling asleep, my coffee was now cold from having to rush to this meeting, and I had a mild panic attack when I couldn’t recall if I had locked the front door on my way out this morning.


    I reminisced about the exact moment I was instructed to choose a career path. It was right before starting Sixth Form, and we were each given a form to select our streams: Arts of Science. It was a cruel system, expecting a clueless kid to determinethe path of the rest of their lives by simply ticking acheckbox.Raised by mother to be fiscally frugal, I naturally leaned towards a career that would earn me the most money.


    This is it, I thought naively as I ticked all the subjects for Engineering, this will set me up for life.


    Little did I know that what I actually signed up for was unrewarded overtime, endless red tape, and daily redundant meetings (that could have been emails).


    My mind drifted back to the minutes I was supposed to be working on. Wow, I zoned out for quite a while. The other people in the room were still droning on, but I supposed they were about to conclude soon, given the time. I perked up at the thought of retreating to my corner desk. Any moment now.


    I looked down on my watch.


    9.03 a.m.


    I could almost feel the deep soul-crushing pain caused by such irony.


    That, or it could have been my gastritis acting up from the cold, bitter coffee.


    With a subtle sigh, I picked up my pen and tried to concentrate on my notes. It took immense effort, considering I was still mourning the poignant relativity of time and the sad state of my beverage. Both left a bitter aftertaste, literally and figuratively.


    And that’s when it happened.


    From the corner of my eye, I saw my spare pen roll over slightly towards me. I paid no heed to it, probably moved because of the air-conditioner. The central AC was known to be a bitwonky from time to time.


    The second time it happened caught my full attention; this time it rolled a solid few inches away from me.


    This was it. I was becoming undone. All those all-nighters and lack of social interaction has caught up to me. My imagination has intertwined with reality, and I couldn’t tell them apart.


    I supposed all I had left to do now was accept my fate. This could go two ways: my tragic memoir could be turned into an award-winning coming-of-age biopic, or… I could be institutionalized forever.


    If it was the former, would I have creative control over the narrative? Would I be able to choose my life-movie’s director?


    “Milla, what are the numbers?”


    I was in reality now, I was sure. No way in my imagination would I have an old man in a monkey suit harass me for numbers I couldn’t care less for.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I read the numbers off my files, which seemed to appease the monkey-man. I looked back at the pen. It remained at its last position.


    Would I be able to choose which actress plays me?


    ***


    It was five minutes to 5 o’clock, but I was already ready to bolt. Bags packed, spirits high, no cares given.


    It wasn’t like I had any terribly exciting plans to head to - no dinner gatherings, no parties, no dates. It’s not that I was anti social, heck, I had my fair share of wild nights back in the day. Too wild, in fact, which left me with painful memories and disgraceful regrets that I carried till this day.


    So instead of working on my traumatic past and putting myself out there, I did what any other self-preserving young adult would do: ignore my problems and binge-watch a show. That day I was eager to find out whether the contestants cooped up in a single household could abstain from having sex with each other. I wonder what our ancestors would have imagined the future to be: flying cars, teleportation devices, humans possessing the willpower to maintain celibacy…


    But no, the year was 2020, and one of the greatest productions of our generation was a scripted superficial drama of whether a bunch of adolescents could keep it in their pants.


    Ah, how far we’ve come. And I was shamelessly deriving pleasure from it.


    “Milla! Hold up.”


    I begrudgingly held the door open button in the elevator.


    “Hey, Lee,” I said with a smile.


    “Glad I caught you,” he kept the doors open with his hands. “Join us tonight, we’re going to the beach to celebrate Jane’s birthday.”


    No, Lee, I had to know if Selena and Tom can resist their palpable sexual chemistry.


    “Sure, Lee,” I said instead. “When and where?”


    “Great! Never mind that, just carpool with us.” he said as he let go of the doors. “Meet us down at the lobby.”


    “Great,” I echoed. “See you.”


    As the doors close I cursed my spineless self.


    ***


    The warmth from the bonfire made me feel better. I took another bite of pizza and managed to take a genuine interestin some small talk.


    Everyone was singing out loud to a curated list of current hits on Lee’s phone, and before they could pinpoint me next to deliver some current hit for their entertainment, I picked up a can of soda and ducked away from the crowd. I headed over to the edge of the sea and sat down facing the sea. It was a soothing night; the sounds of the waves and gentle breeze calmed me despite the commotion going on at the back.


    I felt someone come up behind me, and without turning to see who it was I said, “Nice night, isn’t it.”


    It was silent for a while, aside from for the crashing of the waves and the musical ruckus. I started to feel uncomfortable that my comment was left hanging in the air, so I swung around.


    Jamie, the office clerk, was walking towards me, and that left me somewhat puzzled. I could have sworn I felt her nearer to me.


    “Milla, come, we’re about to cut the cake!” she said, gesturing me over enthusiastically.


    I got up and went over to her. As I walked, the grainy sand prickling the soles of my feet, I felt the same presence looming behind me.


    I shook it off,and distracted myself by entertaining the idea ofbeing the director of my ownbiopic.


    ***


    It was pitch black. I’ve performed the necessarysteps: guided meditation, aromatherapy, no blue-light devices an hour before bed.


    But there I lay–3 in the morning and eyes still wide open, staring into nothing.


    My insomnia episodes were rare but when it struck, it struck hard. I foresaw how the night would pan out: a few hours wallowing in my past mistakes, another few hours worrying about my unchecked to-do list, and the last few minutes groggily rushing as I got ready for work.


    I spun on my bed and faced the wall. The physical exhaustion was taking a toll on my mind, and I became angrier at myself. I was in a vicious cycle: my stress was keeping me up, and my being up was fueling my stress.


    I squeezed my eyes shut and counted sheep as a last resort.


    I had made it to the 135^th sheep when I heard a shuffle behind me, and sensed the same presence I felt back at the beach.


    I froze. I tried to convince myself that my sleep-deprived mind was just playing tricks on me. I reverted my focus on the white, fluffy sheep.


    136… 137… 152… no… 138…


    The shuffling got louder, nearer, and I began counting the sheep out loud instead.


    “164… 169… ahh… 1… 2… 3…”


    “Hello?” a deep voice interrupted my count, and I screamed my lungs out.