Hope I'm Not Too Late

Susan stiffened. Her eyes shot to Carlos.

Emily blinked. "Y-Yes, sir. I am."

"Good," Carlos said simply, then turned and continued his path.

Susan followed, each step heavier than the last.

Her heart clenched. She’d worked beside Carlos for years. Picked his clothes. Arranged his schedule. Attended to all his needs. And he’d never asked her if she was single.

Never looked at her the way he just looked at that girl.

She followed in silence, hiding the crack in her composure. But the damage was done. Her heart... was breaking.

--------------------

Earlier That Morning— Emily's POV... [The Girl That Was Bullied]

Emily groaned, her eyes barely opening as her phone alarm buzzed like a stubborn bee. The sound felt like knives in her skull.

"Is it morning already?" she mumbled, voice coarse with sleep, body buried beneath a cheap floral blanket.

She slapped her hand around the cluttered nightstand, knocking over a half-empty water bottle and a tangled pair of earbuds before finally silencing the alarm. "Shut up," she muttered to the phone, even though she had been the one to set the 5:12AM alarm the night before.

Light from the screen hit her square in the eyes, making her squint and turn her head. "Still 5:12. I got a few minutes," she whispered and placed the phone next to her, letting her eyes slide shut again.

But peace was short-lived.

Her eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright and snatched her phone.

"Fuck!" she cried out. "6:48?!"

Her body exploded into motion. "I'm cooked! I'm cooked, I'm fucking cooked!" she yelled, leaping off the bed, the mattress springs creaking in protest.

She bolted into the bathroom still in her thin night robe, stumbling slightly on a crumpled shirt on the floor. "I have to be in Manhattan before eight. No more penalties! They’ll fire me for sure!"

She flung her robe off and yanked the shower handle. Cold water hit her first, making her yelp, but she didn’t wait. She grabbed the shampoo bottle, poured a generous amount on her palm, and messily slapped it onto her head.

Soap splashed across her chest, arms, and even her eyebrows. The shower water cascaded down her petite frame as she lathered her brown hair with speed. Her breath was short, and she hissed every time the cold stream hit a sensitive spot.

She barely rinsed the foam before jumping out, grabbing the rough towel off the rack. She wiped vigorously, not even noticing patches of shampoo still in her hair and armpits. She stepped toward the tiny cabinet under the cracked bathroom mirror, grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, and went at it like a woman possessed.

She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror. Her lips, foamy. Her eyes, wild. A faint streak of soap trickled from her hairline.

"Oh my gosh, I've got soap in my hair," she muttered and wiped it off with the already damp towel.

She spat into the sink, bent to the rusting tap and took in water with her hand to rinse. The taste of mint stayed strong in her mouth as she spat again and hurried back into her room.

She threw on her navy-blue work blouse and slim black pants, pulling them over her still-damp body. She sprayed deodorant under one arm, then the other, cursing when the bottle slipped from her hand and rolled under the bed.

"No time!" she barked, grabbing her worn sneakers and hopping into them one foot at a time.

She snatched her handbag from the nightstand, dumped her phone inside, and yelled, "Hope I'm not forgetting anything!"

She glanced around the room. Clothes piled in a corner. Her laptop charging on the floor. Dishes from two nights ago on the windowsill.

"Fuck it!" she hissed and slammed the door shut behind her.

The hallway was dimly lit, the smell of last night’s cooking still lingering. Her footsteps echoed as she ran down the stairs, sneakers pounding against the worn tiles.

Outside, Queens was already alive. People moved like ants, all chasing something. Buses groaned down the street, horns blared, and shopkeepers lifted their shutters.

She sprinted toward the subway, her eyes scanning for the next arriving train. The station was packed. Suits. Hoodies. Coffee cups. Bags. Everyone lost in their own urgency.

She stood by the yellow line, shifting from foot to foot, tapping her fingers on her thigh. She checked her phone: 7:12.

"Come on, come on," she whispered.

A few minutes later, the train pulled in with a loud metallic groan. She pushed forward with the crowd and found herself standing between a man reading a newspaper and a woman applying lipstick.

The ride felt like forever. Emily clutched the overhead rail, her knuckles white. Her phone vibrated. A Slack notification from work. She didn’t dare open it.

She kept her eyes glued to the time. 7:34. 7:41. 7:45. Her heart pounded harder with every tick.

Finally, her stop.

She jumped out as soon as the doors opened, nearly tripping over a kid with a backpack. "Sorry!" she yelled without looking back.

Up the stairs, into the daylight, the chaos of Manhattan hit her like a wave. Car horns. The rumble of buses. Heels clacking against the pavement. She was panting now, weaving through the flood of people.

The towering glass building of AXSpaceline HQ came into view. Over twenty floors. Her floor was on the sixteenth.

She checked her phone. 7:56.

She picked up speed.

Past a hotdog vendor. Around a woman walking a dog. Dodging a man with coffee. Her breaths came sharp, sweat dotting her forehead.

She reached the parking lot, barely able to catch her breath. She checked the time again. 8:04.

"Shit," she muttered and bolted through the underground lobby.

"ID," one of the security guards said.

Emily fumbled in her bag, hands shaking, finally pulling it out and flashing it. The guard nodded, and she ran toward the elevators.

"Hold the door!" she yelled.

Someone pressed the button just in time, and she slipped in.

The elevator doors closed. She leaned against the wall, chest heaving.

"I hope I'm not too late," she whispered, eyes shut, head back, bracing for whatever came next.