Gemotions

"They're selling," the intern chirped, her voice bubbling with an unsettling mix of excitement and naive optimism.

"Mm-hmm," I grunted, not looking up from the spreadsheet. The numbers blurred. They always did when anxiety clawed at the edges of my focus. I refused to let it in. The idea of leaving the company was a non-starter. This job, this mundane existence, was *mine*.

The intern, bless her heart, didn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm. She continued to chatter about the potential new owners and the “exciting” opportunities that might arise. I ignored her, focusing instead on the rhythmic tap of my pen against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. A steady beat, a defiant rhythm against the storm brewing outside my office door.

A strange heat bloomed in my chest. I felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap. I wouldn't leave. They could try to fire me, offer me a severance package, do whatever they wanted. I was rooted here. They weren't taking this away from me.