The Road Ahead

Across the small lunch table in our break room, John was trying to dismantle a mechanical pencil that somehow broke at his desk. His attention was fully focused on the pencil, reminding me of someone trying to defuse a bomb. However, mine kept drifting to the email that we had gotten over the weekend.

Our boss, Matt, announced that he had to lay off a few employees in our department for budget cuts, though he never said who. The whole office was on edge ever since the email came through. Causing people to try and overachieve in their tasks.

The tip, eraser cap, and thin metal spring were all scattered in front of John. His sandwich, forgotten in its wrapper, had only a bite or two missing. He kept trying to click the top, even though the parts were scattered in front of him.

“You know they sell more of those,” I said, watching John shake the barrel over the table. I was confused about his goal but decided not to ask. I took another bite of my lunch.

“That’s not the point,” he said, peering inside like he expected to find answers written along the plastic interior. After a few long moments of silence, and me taking a few more bites of my lunch, John spoke again. Shocking me out of my thoughts about tasks I need to complete.

“I had a weird dream last night,” he said.

I paused, the fork hanging in the air, as I looked over at John. My expression only showed confusion and slight intrigue at his words. His definition of “weird” could range anywhere from mildly inconvenient to psychologically concerning.

“I was in a room that was full of sticky notes, nearly up to my ankles,” he said. He picked up the pieces of the pencil, fiddling with them again. He slid the spring back onto the base of the pencil. “The worst part was that people kept calling me over to fix printers. I do not know how printers work, Valorie. I just unplug them and hope for the best.”

A small laugh slipped out before I could catch myself. The image of John, buried ankle-deep in blank sticky notes while coworkers waited for solutions he could not provide, felt almost comical.

“I know, very funny.” He said, a flat look on his face, and he focused back on the broken pencil in his hand. He went quiet, forgetting about our conversation.

John clicked the pencil again. Nothing happened. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before retrying. This time, a small piece of graphite revealed itself. John perked up, removed it, and put the pieces back together. He then tested the pencil on a napkin that was on the table.

“There,” he said; a quiet triumph was heard in his voice. I saw the tension leave his shoulders as he put the pencil back in his pocket.

As I took another bite of my lunch, I found myself thinking about the blank sticky notes that he saw in his dream. Something about it caught my attention as I thought about how even the silliest dreams can tug at something real.

Somewhere between broken pencils and printers that never seem to work, it is easy to feel like you’re one action away from feeling stuck. But at that moment, the most important thing was that the pencil worked. Not that we could be laid off at any moment.

After John and I finished our lunches, we returned to our desks, which were tucked away behind light gray cubicles. The office felt like a maze on some days, our cubicles scattered about in a random pattern.

Before I sat down, my phone chimed. Immediately recognizing the sound, I sighed, knowing that another email had entered my inbox.

I logged into my computer, seeing emails that were mostly from clients. Some from higher-ups. Others were from companies trying to reach out to us. In sales, everything felt too urgent. I never had time to breathe, and if I made a mistake, it derailed the whole day. It reminded me of John’s dream: everyone staring at you, expecting you to fix the issue, even if you don’t know how.

I clicked open another email, my tired eyes straining as I tried to read it. A company reached out to us to place an order, and, as I typed out what felt like an automated response–carefully enthusiastic and informational–I heard footsteps approaching my cubicle.

I looked over to see John. He stood in the doorway, holding an empty box in his hands. He didn’t say anything as he looked at me. His expression was tight, like he was trying to keep something from spilling out.

He stepped further into my cubicle and set the box down. His expression never changed as he leaned on the edge of my desk. I turned in my chair and looked in the box on the ground. Inside was an old picture frame, a small stapler, and some crumpled paper. It looked like a box of garbage.

“What’s that?” I asked John, wanting to see if my theories were right.

John exhaled softly; the sound nearly lost under the hum of printers and distant ringing phones. “They’re starting early.”

“Starting what?”

He glanced toward the aisle, as if someone could be eavesdropping, then crossed his arms against his chest. “Layoffs. Budget cuts. Whatever Matt called it in the email. They let three people from marketing go about twenty minutes ago.”

My blood ran cold, “Marketing? I thought it was just sales?” I kept my voice quiet as footsteps passed by. My hands rested, motionless, in my lap.

“Apparently, they reviewed the numbers during the last meeting,” John said, keeping his voice low as he spoke.

It made sense; every meeting lately had carried that same tension, like everyone was pretending not to notice the crack running through the floor.

I nodded towards the near-empty box, “So that’s for … ?”

John shrugged, “Matt asked me to go around and collect anything people don’t want, outside of the usual garbage.” I could tell the insinuation beneath our boss’s request. Make it easier to pack up if someone is let go.

The office suddenly felt smaller. The walls of my cubicle, which normally offered privacy, now felt like they were closing in. I glanced at the few personal things scattered across my desk: a framed photo of me, my sister, and my mom. The small plant I kept forgetting to water. As well as a colorful notepad filled with scribbled reminders of upcoming meetings.

It wasn’t much. But they were proof that I had been here. Proof that I belonged. Although I wasn’t sure that I did.

The older I got, the more time I spent in this cramped office, the more I thought about the dream I once had. Which was to move to a random city and walk through woods with a camera in hand, photographing animals, plants, and whatever else I might find.

My inbox chimed again. Bringing me back to the present. I sighed as I turned back to my screen. I chuckled, but there was no humor behind it.

“I don’t have anything to toss right now,” I say, seeing the blinking cursor waiting for me to finish responding to the client. My fingers began to move again, slower this time. “But I’ll bring it out if I do.”

Behind me, I heard John shift his weight. “Just … keep your head down,” he said quietly.

“I always do.”

He gave a small nod and picked up the box again, the stapler and picture frame knocking softly against the cardboard as he stepped out of my cubicle.

The sound followed him down the aisle. I wanted to look back. Instead, I hit send on the email and opened the next one I had to reply to.

After answering what felt like a million more emails, I finally returned to my apartment. It greeted me the way it always did: quiet, still, and untouched. I set my bag down by the door and kicked off my shoes. The silence felt heavier than the office had ever felt. At least at work, some noise filled the space. Distant conversations, printers, and phones ringing.

I moved through my boring routine. I turned on my lights, half-opened my blinds to let in some sunlight, and heated leftover pasta in the microwave. The hum of the microwave sounded too similar to the printers that ran through my subconscious. For a moment, I considered checking my email again. But as the microwave’s timer sounded, the thoughts about work fled my mind.

Instead, I carried my bowl of pasta over to the couch and sat down. The blank television screen seemed to stare at me. My reflection stared back, showing tired eyes, slouched shoulders, someone who kept her head down.

A familiar sound rang throughout my apartment. I reached for my phone on the end table near my couch. The screen read: Mom. She was probably checking in on me, something she did often when she knew I was off work.

I let her ringtone cycle once more before answering. “Hey.”

“Hi, honey.” Her voice was warm and familiar. “How was work?”

I hesitated. There were a dozen different ways to answer that question. But I chose one that was easy. “It was … busy,” I said finally.

She hummed softly, like she understood. “Busy is good, right?”

“Sometimes.”

There was a pause, the kind that only exists between people who know each other well enough to hear what isn’t being said.

“You sound tired,” she said.

“I am.”

I could picture her in the kitchen back home, leaning against the counter, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder.

“They started layoffs today,” I said, before I could talk myself out of it.

Her breath caught faintly. “Oh …Val.”

“It’s fine. I mean … it’s not fine. But I’m still there.” I took a breath, “For now.”

“Are you worried?”

I stared back at the dark television screen. I reached for the remote that sat on the arm of the couch and turned the TV on. “A little.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You’ve always worked hard. They’d be foolish to let you go.”

I almost smiled. My mother was always good at turning uncertainty and fears into something that sounds survivable.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s just … it got me thinking.”

“About?”

I traced the seam of the couch cushion with my finger. “About whether I even want to stay.”

The silence on the other end shifted. Not alarmed. Just cautious.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I exhaled.

“I keep thinking about what I wanted before all of this. Before sales and cubicles and offices,” My voice softened. “I wanted to travel, to explore somewhere new. Take photos of nature and see different landmarks.”

“You can take photos here, and there are many hiking trails in your area,” she said gently.

“I know. But it’s not the same.”

After a moment of silence, I responded, “I’ve been thinking about moving.” Saying it out loud nearly made it feel fragile. “If things don’t work out, or if I get laid off…”

“Move where?” The slight edge of concern now shone fully through as she cut off my words.

“I don’t know. Somewhere bigger. Or smaller. Just … different. So, I don’t have to worry about millions of emails or small offices and apartments anymore.”

She sighed softly. “That’s a big decision.”

“I know.”

“You have stability where you are now. Your apartment. Your job.” A pause. “Us.”

The last word settled heavier than the rest.

“I wouldn’t disappear,” I said quickly. “It’s not that I’m running away.”

“It feels a little like it,” she replied.

I swallowed. “Maybe it is. But I see it as running toward something rather than away.”

I looked down at my now cold pasta, then back to the TV. A random talk show was on. It showed two people I didn’t know talking about a random celebrity; I had it on mute as I waited for my mom to respond.

I imagined her thinking, weighing responsibility against possibility. My mom had always been careful. Careful with money, plans, and dreams that didn’t come with guarantees. That trait trickled down to my younger sister, but not to me.

“Valorie,” she said slowly, “dreams are wonderful … but they don’t always pay rent.”

“I know.” I’d heard versions of that sentence my whole life. Every time we spoke about a dream I had, that sentence showed up. It sometimes made me scared to follow my dreams. As I thought my mom would be upset, too worried, or disappointed in some way.

“But,” she continued, surprising me, “that doesn’t mean you ignore them.”

I sat up a little straighter, focusing more on her words as I stayed silent. I prepared myself for what she was going to say next.

“If you’re truly unhappy,” she said, softer now, “then maybe it’s worth thinking about. Just don’t decide out of fear.”

“I’m not,” though I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “I just don’t want to wake up in ten years and realize I never tried.”

She sighed again, but it sounded different this time. Less resistant.

“Well, if you decide to try, you won’t be doing it alone. We’ll figure it out.”

“You mean that?”

“I may not understand all of it,” she admitted. “And I have the right to worry about you.” A hint of a smile touched her voice. “But I don’t want to be the reason you stay somewhere that makes you small.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. The emotions behind my mom’s words nearly made it hard to respond. “I don’t feel small.”

“Then what do you feel?”

I looked around my apartment, seeing the seemingly sterile furniture, the dim light from the overhead bulb, and the off-white walls that made it nearly seem like a hospital room. “Stuck…” I answered. “Like I’m reliving the same day repeatedly.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Then maybe it is time to move,” she said gently. “Just when you do, promise me you’ll have a plan.”

“I will. Promise.”

After we said goodbye and hung up, I clicked on the gallery app and opened the folder of photos I’d taken over the years. It consisted of trees at sunset, strangers on sidewalks, birds flying overhead. For the first time in a while, the quiet didn’t feel suffocating. It felt free, like I had the opportunity to make a million different choices.

After finishing my cold pasta, taking a quick shower, and reading a part of my book, I fell asleep. I don’t remember what time I fell asleep, but all I know is that morning came too quickly.

When I arrived at work the next day, the office looked the same as it had the day before: gray cubicles, fluorescent lights, the low hum of printers warming up for the day. Nothing in the room hinted that anything had shifted overnight. For some reason, that fact didn’t settle right with me.

As I walked through the maze of cubicles, the usual route that I took felt like clockwork. I went to say good morning to John.

However, when I arrived at his desk, expecting him to already be writing an email to someone, I saw the opposite. John’s desk was clean. Not the organized type of clean either. Empty. The plant he kept near his monitor was gone. As was the stack of sticky notes and the crooked calendar he’d forgotten to flip, with red ink scribbled in some of the dates. All of it erased as if it had never been there.

I stood there in shock for a moment. He either got a call right as he walked in the door or one overnight telling him just to come in to collect his things. I felt terrible; I knew that we both didn’t enjoy this job, but he liked it more than I did. I was suddenly taken out of my thoughts as someone cleared their throat down the aisle.

“Valorie?”

I turned to see Matt standing a few cubicles down.

“Can you step into my office for a minute?” His voice was monotone, but with a hint of clearly rehearsed sympathy.

The walk felt longer than it should have. My shoes sounded too loud against the tile. As we reached his office, I saw that the blinds were half-drawn, slicing the room into thin bands of light.

He gestured for me to sit in the chair that was on the opposite side of his desk, where he slowly sat down. My body was on autopilot as I sat, setting my bag down by my feet, and focused my gaze on the man across the desk.

I already knew the speech I was about to hear. I’d heard enough versions of it in movies and stories. Budget constraints … company restructuring … not a reflection of your work … When he finished, the silence rang louder than the printers ever had.

“So,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected it to be.

“That’s it?”

“I’m sorry, Valorie.”

I nodded once. “Was John also…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish what I already knew.

He hesitated. “Yes.”

His simple agreement hurt more than I expected.

I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember shaking his hand. I only remember the strange feeling in my chest, like some type of relief that filled my chest.

As I reached my desk, I stood in the doorway for a long moment. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of my desk. Everything was eerily still. After staring at the picture, I realized that there was a box that wasn’t there before.

I looked up and saw a simple, empty cardboard box with small handles cut out on the side. I let out a breath as I started collecting my things. The picture frame. The plant. The notepad. They fit inside the empty box too easily.

Around me, the office carried on like nothing was happening. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. Someone laughed in the distance. As I gathered the rest of my things, I pondered saying goodbye, but realized that John was the only one that I would have said bye to. So, I walked out without saying goodbye to anyone.

When I stepped outside, the air felt sharper than usual. I put the box in my back seat, then climbed into the driver’s seat. I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel for a long moment before pulling out my phone.

Mom answered on the second ring. “Hi, honey.”

“They let me go,” I said. The number of different emotions running through me makes my voice flat. I didn’t know what emotion to show.

She inhaled softly. “Oh, Val.”

“It’s okay,” I added quickly. And somehow, I found that it was. “John too.”

“That company—”

“I know.” I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. “I think I’m going to leave.”

“Leave for the day?” she asked carefully.

“No. Just … leave.” I swallowed. “Drive somewhere. I don’t know exactly where yet.”

There was a longer silence. I imagined her weighing responsibility against possibility again.

“Do you have enough saved?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then go,” she said quietly, like she was carefully encouraging me. “Just promise to call me when you stop.”

Something in my chest loosened. Relief? Fear? Anticipation? I couldn’t name it in that moment.

“I will,” I said before I could overthink my decision.

The next hour or two … or three … felt like a blur. I drove home, packed up everything important into the two suitcases I had, and put them in the car. Then, without any other thought, I closed my apartment door behind me, got in the car, and started driving.

I had to remind myself to blink. As I drove, the city thinned. Buildings gave way to trees. Billboards became fields. I felt my shoulders lower inch by inch as I relaxed. My playlist was playing on my radio, alternating between fast-paced rap to pop to country.

Hours passed without me noticing. By the time the sun began to dip, I felt my eyes blur from exhaustion, and I pulled off the freeway without checking the sign. The town I arrived at was small, with what seemed like one main street, a worn-down diner with a flickering neon sign, and a gas station on the corner. It was quiet, but not empty.

I parked outside a modest hotel with a vacancy sign glowing red in the window. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old carpet. Threatening to remind me of the office I was all too familiar with.

The woman at the desk slid a registration card toward me without asking questions.

“One night?” she asked.

“For now,” I replied.

After I paid, she set the room key in my palm. It felt heavier than it should have been. When I arrived in the room, I set my suitcase, the one that held my clothes, next to the small table by the window. I flicked on the lamp light, and the soft light illuminated the room.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what came next. Right on cue, my phone buzzed. It was my mom texting me. She was probably tracking my location and saw that I stopped.

Did you stop somewhere safe?

I looked around the quiet room. Seeing the unfamiliar walls, the closed door that was locked from the outside, and the only thing familiar in the room, my suitcase, standing next to me.

Yes, I typed back.

For the first time in a long while, no emails were waiting. No numbers to review. No cubicle walls pressing in. No pressure to perform in a certain way.

Just a forest surrounding me, a road behind me. And most importantly to me, a road ahead.