Chapter 3

The next morning at the office, I pulled open my desk drawer. My fingertips brushed against something cold, slimy, and gelatinous.

The repulsive texture sent an instant shockwave through my system.

My breathing caught. My stomach violently cramped.

The modern office desk in front of me suddenly blurred, transforming into my 8th-grade classroom.

I saw the boys laughing as they stuffed dead, rotting insects into my backpack. I saw my teenage self reaching for a textbook, only to pull out a hand covered in green, oozing slime.

The entire classroom was roaring with laughter.

"Chloe is a slimy freak! Touch her and she pukes!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood. The physical pain dragged me back to reality.

I pulled out a sanitizing wipe. Holding it like a shield, I picked up the stress-ball Charlotte had left in my drawer—the one that had burst and leaked slime everywhere—and threw it into the trash.

When I was fifteen, I had completely broken down and cried because someone put a dead rat in my locker.

Brandon had shown up.

He didn't say a word. He led me out of the hallway, went into my room, and stayed there for five hours.

He threw away everything that had been contaminated and bought me brand-new replacements, arranging them exactly the way they were.

The next morning, I woke up to a single text from him.

"Your room is clean now. It’s okay if the world is dirty. You have me."

I had kept that promise close to my heart for ten years.

"Chloe? Earth to Chloe. What are you daydreaming about? Let’s grab lunch." Charlotte’s voice shattered my thoughts.

At lunch, Charlotte used her own fork to stab a piece of beef from her plate and dropped it onto mine.

"Try this. It’s absolutely amazing."

I looked down. The edges of the meat were grayish-green. The color was completely off.

I laid my fork down.

Charlotte frowned. "What now?"

"The meat doesn't look fresh."

"Oh, come on. Everyone else is eating it. You're the only one being dramatic."

She turned to Brandon. "Brandon, back me up here."

Brandon glanced at my plate. His lips twitched slightly.

"It’s fine. If you think it’s dirty, just throw it away."

Charlotte’s face fell. "Dirty? What do you mean dirty? Chloe, you are literally pathologically sensitive."

I stared at the graying meat.

"I can't eat this." I pushed the plate away.

Charlotte’s expression hardened.

"Chloe, I was just trying to share my food with you. How can you be so cynical?"

"Is my friendship just 'dirty' to you too?"

People at the neighboring tables were starting to stare.

Brandon reached over and pushed the plate back toward me. "Just eat it, Chloe. Don't make a scene for Charlotte."

I looked into his eyes. "You honestly think there's nothing wrong with this meat?"

He didn't answer. He just repeated, "Just eat it."

I picked up my fork. I stabbed the gray meat.

I put it in my mouth and swallowed it.

Charlotte instantly beamed. "See? I told you you were exaggerating."

Brandon let out a sigh of relief and patted the back of my hand.

I immediately ran to the restroom and threw up.

I stood over the sink, staring at my pale, ghost-like reflection in the mirror.

It wasn't because of the bad meat. It was because Brandon had seen it too—he knew it was bad—and he still made me swallow it.

That afternoon, we had a department sync. Brandon sat next to me. He suddenly leaned in and whispered:

"For tomorrow’s client presentation, let Charlotte do the speaking."

I froze. "What?"

He tried to soften his words.

"Charlotte is great on her feet. I want her to co-present with you."

"You do the slides, she does the talking. How does that sound?"

I looked at him, my heart aching. "You think I'm an embarrassment, don't you?"

Brandon was silent for a few seconds, his gaze shifting away.

"I didn't say that. I just don't want you to push yourself too hard."

He lowered his voice further. "Chloe, just trust me on this."

I didn't reply. I stood up and walked out of the conference room.

That night, I stayed late at the office alone, practicing the presentation deck until midnight.

I wiped down my keyboard with rubbing alcohol three times before I started typing.

As the alcohol seeped into the raw, cracked skin on the backs of my hands, the pain was blinding.