2. Ivy
IVY
I t always starts with the breathing.
Fast. Heavy. Angry.
Some corporate asshole is already yelling directly into my ear before I even finish logging into the system. I haven’t had a full cup of coffee yet, but apparently I’m supposed to carry the weight of this man’s digital meltdown on my half-asleep shoulders.
“Ma’am, are you even listening to me? I’ve been transferred three times already and your software is still broken!”
I keep my voice level. Soft. Not sweet. Sweet gets you groped over the phone. Calm gets you through the call. Angry gets you fired and blacklisted from every tech support company in the city.
“I’m listening,” I say. “And I can help. I just need remote access first so that I can access your system.”
Silence.
Just him breathing like a bull about to charge, making sure I know he’s still angry. Then the click. Authorization granted.
Finally.
Good boy.
I’ve already solved the problem before he finishes another sentence—some half-installed update clogging the permissions hierarchy. Tier One must’ve been asleep at the wheel. Again.
I document the fix. Flag the error. File the call. Disconnect.
2:07 a.m.
I lean back in my chair and roll my neck until it pops.
I really need to come up with something to keep myself awake besides coffee. I’ve still got another few hours to go on this stupid split schedule they’ve got me on.
But it’s not like I can afford to look for another job.
Or a different apartment.
Or pretty much anything.
My apartment is silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan quietly humming. A single desk lamp spills light over the keyboard and my hands, and everything else is covered in shadow.
Turning on the lights around me will only make my pathetic life all the more obvious. Stained drywall behind badly painted walls and popcorn ceilings that probably contain asbestos.
The window’s cracked open, even though I don’t have heat.
I like the cold—it reminds me I’m still here. Still breathing. Still in control.
Barely.
But I guess that’s the way I like it.
I click into the internal reporting system and start a new escalation because fuck this. It’s not supposed to be my job to handle these issues, and I’m so sick and tired of my supervisor taking advantage of my skill just because he can.
Supervisor redirected another Tier Two call to untrained staff. Client escalated and threatened legal action. If we don’t push the update patch soon, someone’s going to sue. Again. Also, please tell the engineers I’m not their babysitter.
I stare at it for a long moment before hitting Send. The system thanks me for my feedback and promises to follow up. It won’t. It never does. But filing it anyway feels like planting a flag on a battlefield everyone else keeps pretending doesn’t exist.
I minimize the screen and open my private folder—the one I keep labeled like it’s a training archive in case someone ever goes snooping.
It’s not.
I click into a new voice note and hit Record.
“My manager reassigned me to the early shift again without asking. That makes it the third time this month. And somehow I’m still the only person fixing backend code at two a.m. while pretending to be the friendly support voice of a failing tech empire.”
I pause. My voice always sounds smaller out loud. Less like armor. More like apology.
“I don’t know why I even bother logging these,” I admit, dragging a hand through my hair. “Maybe I just want proof I existed. That I said something. That I didn’t just disappear one day without leaving a mark.”
Click. Save. I don’t listen to it again.
My phone buzzes across the room. I glance at the screen.
Unknown Number.
No message. No voicemail. Just the cold aftertaste of a call that never meant to be answered.
I stare at it for too long before turning back to my laptop—and freezing.
My shift schedule changed again. I refresh twice to be sure.
I don’t get angry. Anger takes energy that I don’t have and couldn’t afford even if I did.
Instead, I stare at the new hours and let the weight of it all settle across my shoulders like a coat I forgot I was wearing.
3:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. now. They didn’t even bother to notify me that there would be a change and now I’m going to have to adjust my life again.
The worst part is that I’m supposed to start the new schedule immediately. So I’ll just have to work a twelve hour shift tonight to make it work.
The pit in my stomach grows sharp and familiar. Not just from frustration, but from hunger.
I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And if I stay here any longer without grabbing something, I’ll talk myself out of leaving. Again.
I grab my coat, slip on boots that’ve seen better days, and head out into the night before another call comes in that I’ll have to take instead of the lunch break that I now desperately need, even if it is the middle of the night.
The streets are quieter now. Not silent—never silent—but the worst of the city has already passed out or passed on to something else for their entertainment. I tug my sleeves over my fingers and make the walk to the all-night diner five blocks down. Cheap food. Greasy. Comforting.
Familiar.
There’s a guy outside the building, bundled in layers of worn clothing, a trash bag full of cans tucked under his arm like treasure. He doesn’t ask me for anything. Just nods once, eyes down, trying not to look like he exists.
I hesitate at the door.
Inside, I order two grilled cheese sandwiches and a large coffee to go. I don’t need both. I can’t afford both. But I do it anyway.
He’s still there when I step out.
“Hey,” I say, offering him the second sandwich. “It’s not much, but it’s warm.”
He blinks at me like I’ve slapped him. Then he takes it, nodding fast, clutching it like it might disappear.
“Thank you,” he says. “People don’t usually—thank you.”
I don’t say anything. Just nod and walk off into the night before the tears in his voice become mine.
By the time I get back to my apartment, my fingers are numb and the coffee’s gone lukewarm. I set the food on the desk, collapse into the chair, and stare at the monitor, still half-lit with leftover code and reminders.
I sit. Stare at the sandwich. It smells like grease and memory. Warmth that doesn’t reach deep enough.
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
And feel nothing.
It’s like my stomach’s closed for business. Like my body already decided survival doesn’t mean that I get to eat anything tonight. My appetite is just… gone.
I push the sandwich aside and wipe my hands on a napkin, even though they’re clean. Just something to do. Something to distract from the ache sitting where food should go. But none of that is unusual at this point.
The screen saver on my laptop draws my attention. Pale blue glow, a swirl of company branding that feels more like a warning than a welcome.
I log back in and check for late pings.
There’s one ticket left in my queue, but it’s one that I know I shouldn’t touch. Honestly, it should’ve been flagged for someone else. It’s in a completely different department, something we’re not even trained for.
I almost reassign it. Almost.
But something about the blatant desperation in the message catches my eye.
“I’m not sure who to contact anymore. I’ve been locked out of the photo archives for weeks. They’re telling me to file another formal ticket to get the help I need, but I’m ninety and this is the only computer my granddaughter set up before she passed away. Please. I just want to see my photos.”
The name attached is unfamiliar. A client ID I’ve never seen.
Definitely not one of the corporate clients that I work on.
This isn’t my job.
This is definitely not something I should do.
It isn’t even in my wheelhouse. Well, the wheelhouse that I was hired for.
But I open the permissions chain anyway.
Start backtracking access logs. Whoever flagged this account inactive didn’t read the metadata correctly.
There’s a full recovery path buried under a deprecated backup protocol.
Essentially, whoever saw this before was too lazy to actually do their goddamn job.
I can do this.
I may not have any power, or any way to do anything real… but I can do this one small thing. And no one will ever know.
I pull it. Bypass the firewall. Reissue the access key.
Ten minutes later, it’s fixed and I shoot an automated email to the client ID letting them know that their archive is accessible.
No one will thank me. No one will even know what I did. Not really
But somewhere, this woman just got memories back that are probably more precious to her than anything else in the world.
And I don’t know why, but that makes it easier to breathe.
For a second, anyway.
I close the ticket, add a note for my internal records, and glance at the untouched sandwich on my desk.
Still can’t eat it.
Still can’t sleep.
I sit in the blue light until my eyes blur and the apartment fades to nothing.
The city hums below me. My inbox is empty. My stomach is hollow.
And I have never felt more alone.