How much does our upbringing really shape who we become?
Here I am, on the 38th floor—a single step away from nothingness.
To escape it all.
I was raised in an old-school family, the firstborn. I was told there was supposed to be a younger brother too. But complications at birth meant only one of us made it—it was me.
I survived, yet my mother never really looked my way.
That brother I never got to meet? Mom talked about him for years, as if he was an angel who was lost too soon.
Even my dad, who'd rather be playing poker, used to jab his finger at me and accuse, "You killed your brother and nearly took your mother too!"
Growing up, I couldn't figure out what I did to be so disliked. I learned to walk on eggshells, to gauge the mood, to blend into the background—all lessons from the home front.
I swore to myself early on—I'd leave this house, this city, and never look back.
So, at 18, when college apps were due, I took my shot at a university far, far away.
On the moving day, I lugged my bags, solo, to campus.
Standing amid the new faces, I saw others getting help from their parents with luggage, receiving worried instructions, and sharing tearful goodbyes.
I couldn't connect with that; never had it, never missed it.
All I felt was relief—I was finally out, anonymous, starting over somewhere new.
Week one and I was already hustling at a local café near campus, figuring I couldn't bank on my parents for cash.
I hit the books hard during the week and worked weekends.
After a year of flying solo, I split my savings. Half stayed with me, and half went back home.
I rang up my dad, "Dad, I'm staying put for the holidays. Take care of yourselves."
"Sure, stay away. Your mom would only get upset seeing you anyway," he shot back.
After hanging up, I chuckled bitterly. Right, I was the family curse, wasn't I? Might as well stay away.
New Year's Eve, while the world celebrated, I felt like the only soul left out in the cold.
I hate all the hype during festivals, and being alone is all I need.
Alone on the streets, watching the fireworks, I dared to make a wish for the very first time—wishing for the things I'd always longed for.
In my junior year, mid-lecture, the advisor pulled me aside.
"Kelly, you need to take this call. It's urgent... about your mom... She's gone. Heart attack."
I hurriedly purchased a ticket for the earliest overnight train and found myself standing for a grueling 14 hours.
The details of enduring that lengthy ride blur together—the narrow aisle cramped with passengers, the air thick with the scent of various foods, the low murmur of others sleeping soundly, all while I stared out at the pitch-black sky, silently urging the train to speed up even more.
When we finally arrived, my legs were so numb that I bolted home without a moment's hesitation.
By the time I reached, I was too late—the hospital had already handled everything.
"Had to go off to study, huh? Missed seeing your mom one last time," Dad said, his voice thick with grief.
The following day, I helped Dad host the wake. I watched as people gorged themselves, clinking glasses, all smiles.
Some were Mom's kin, others her old buddies.
Eventually, Dad nudged me to mingle. "Come on, help me out here."
"I'm not playing host to these folks. They're your guests," I retorted.
"When will you ever grow up?" he sighed.
Why should I entertain these people? They were here for the spread, not to mourn.
It was a bitter irony. What's the point of it all, really?
I shed no tears at the funeral. Was I just cold-hearted? Perhaps.
A fortnight later, back at school, my days fell back into the old, aimless routine.
Classes, jobs—just going through the motions.
Chapter 2I've never been one for grand dreams or ambitions. All I've ever wanted—the kind of warmth I've craved—seems forever out of reach.
So, I take life one day at a time.
In my junior year, our school set us up with internships. I landed a gig as an executive assistant at a corporate firm, thanks to my major in administrative management.
I'm naturally reserved, and this job demanded top-notch communication and interpersonal skills. About a month in, I was struggling. The office politics, the cutthroat atmosphere—I was done. I thought about quitting.
One evening, I dropped my resignation letter on the CEO's desk, planning to just not show up and head back to my part-time job at the local café instead.
I figured I'd deal with the fallout later.
The next morning, Mr. Brown, the CEO, called me up.
He sounded a bit peeved. "Kelly, your performance isn't the issue. I was even thinking of cutting your internship short because you're ready. You showed up, so see it through. Whatever you're facing, I'm here to support you. I'll ignore this resignation letter. See you at the office tomorrow."
"I'm not coming back, Mr. Brown."
"Beep... Beep..."
The call ended with a click. I sighed, buried myself back under the covers, and drifted back to sleep.
When I woke up, it was dusk. I got dressed and decided to grab some dinner.
As I was about to leave, my phone buzzed. It was Mr. Brown again.
Was he calling to drag me back to the office? I hesitated, then answered.
His voice was deep and compelling. "Kelly, where are you? We need to talk."
"Mr. Brown, I really don't plan on coming back," I tried to cut him off.
"Meet me. I think I understand what you're dealing with. Let's talk it out. I'm still your boss—I can't just ignore your struggles. Where are you? I'll come pick you up."
Mr. Brown took me to an upscale Italian restaurant, a first for me. The elegant vibe made me feel out of place.
I blinked at the menu prices, shocked.
Mr. Brown noticed and quickly ordered for us both, telling the waiter, "She'll have what I'm having."
He smiled reassuringly, "Relax, I'm a regular here. Trust me, you'll enjoy it."
He expertly cut up my steak and handed me the plate.
Watching him swirl his wine with ease, he gave me a knowing look and downed his glass in one go.
I took his lead, sipping one glass after another until the room started spinning. I ended up slumped against him, spouting all sorts of silly things.
He steadied me, responding to my rambles with, "It's all good. You've got me."
I ended up spilling my guts about my past, and everything I'd been through.
He was a solid presence, his chin resting on my forehead, his scent calming.
Maybe it was the wine talking, but I felt oddly drawn to him, caught in a haze between dream and reality.
As we neared my building, he stopped and looked down at me intently. I looked back, squinting slightly, and saw a mix of curiosity and desire in his eyes.
He kissed me. I didn't resist.
"Want to keep this going?" he whispered, his breath hot and rough against my ear, sending shivers down my spine and my body softening.
I felt weak, but a sliver of rationality pushed through. "It's late, Mr. Brown. I've got work in the morning. I better head back."
I turned and ran up the stairs, heart pounding. He didn't follow.
Sleep eluded me all night.
Chapter 3The next day, work felt like any other, except I couldn't quite meet Mr. Brown's eyes. When I passed him documents, my head was down, my hands careful.
Thinking about last night's antics still had me cringing.
Mr. Brown, however, acted like it was just another day. He seemed more attentive but never mentioned that night again.
Maybe I thought there was something there, but perhaps it was all in my head.
I felt like a Cinderella—only without any luck. Fairy tales? Not for me.
As expected, after my internship, I was kept on as Mr. Brown's assistant.
During a company dinner, I suddenly felt nauseous and excused myself to throw up.
Right then, my phone rang—it was my dad. Annoyed, I hung up. He called back immediately. Reluctantly, I answered, "What's up? I'm kind of busy here!"
Surprisingly, his tone was soft, almost pleading, "Kelly, do you have any cash to spare? Could you lend your dad some?"
"What about the money from Mom's funeral?" I countered sharply.
"That money... it's..." he trailed off.
"Gone!"
I didn't let him finish, cutting the call short.
Calls from him always meant he needed money.
I washed my face, looking in the mirror at my makeup running down my cheeks. My stomach revolted again, and I threw up.
"Why push yourself to drink if you can't handle it?"
Mr. Brown stood leaning against the doorway, an amused look on his face.
I wiped my mouth and forced a sly smile, "If I don't drink, how will you play your cards right with the clients?"
The next morning, Mr. Brown summoned me and handed me a card, "Heard your phone call last night. Take this for now."
"I don't want it," I insisted.
He chuckled lightly, "Just take it, no strings. Pay me back when you can."
That night, I transferred some money to my dad and called him, "This should keep you for a while. Cut back on the gambling. There's no next time."
At the year-end company party, the drinks were flowing and Mr. Brown started speaking. The crowd cheered, "Let Kelly join in with Mr. Brown!"
"Exactly! Kelly's bond with Mr. Brown is something else! She stayed when all the other interns left!"
"I've even seen her ride home with him!" someone added from the crowd.
Sitting there, I clenched my drink, maintaining a calm facade amidst the snide remarks.
I glanced up at Mr. Brown, who was on stage. Despite the murmurs from the crowd, he seemed unaffected, still as captivating and radiant as ever, speaking fluidly and effortlessly.
Unsure if he noticed the intensity of my stare, he casually turned around, sweeping his gaze across the audience.
Our eyes met.
I quickly averted my gaze, feeling overwhelmed and awkward.
"Kelly, come up here," he called out suddenly in front of everyone.
The crowd had started to cheer and tease. I had no idea what he was planning.
Almost as if compelled by some unseen force, I walked up and stood next to Mr. Brown. He wrapped an arm around me, pulled me close, and announced, "As of today, Kelly Emmie is officially my girlfriend."
I was speechless, my eyes wide as I tried to process his words.
A smug smile played across Mr. Brown's lips.
After that night, it was like I had a target on my back at work. People avoided me, their looks tinged with suspicion.
Handing over documents or trying to make small talk met with curt responses; they'd take the files and hurry off.
I felt uneasy all over. In the break room, I caught up with the marketing director, the only one who seemed friendly.
"What's with everyone? Is it because I'm Mr. Brown's girlfriend now?" I asked.
"You're still new here, Kelly. There's a lot you don't know. Just give it time," she said, her discomfort apparent.
She hesitated, then whispered before leaving, "Keep your distance from Mr. Brown, okay? Just enough to stay safe."
I didn't fully grasp her warning, choosing instead to ignore it.
I believed in my work quality and skills; I was with Mr. Brown because he treated me better than anyone else ever had.
I was just following my heart; they had no right to judge.
Mr. Brown usually drove me home, but that night, he suddenly turned around.
"Where are you heading?" I asked, puzzled.
"To my place," he stated flatly.
"We've only been together a few days. Isn't this too soon?" I questioned, my voice tinged with hesitation.
"What's the problem? You're my girlfriend now," he retorted, almost defensively.
Influenced by my traditional upbringing, I was uncomfortable.
"I think I'll head to my own home. If it's too much trouble, you can drop me off, and I'll take a cab," I offered diplomatically.
He stopped the car abruptly, and turned to me with a sarcastic gaze, "You didn't reject the credit card. You've been around, flirting, haven't you? I can see through it."
"Why play the innocent now? We both knew this was heading here. Isn't it fair we both get what we need?" he challenged.
His blunt words stunned me into silence, a tumult of emotions inside me struggling for release.
"But I thought I was your girlfriend, wasn't I?" I managed weakly.
He paused, taken aback for a moment, then composed himself.
"Better get out. Think it over and come back when you're ready."
I didn't call a cab. Instead, I walked, heels clacking against the pavement until pain forced me to remove them. I continued barefoot, lost in thought.
Was there something between Mr. Brown and me, or was it all just a game? He accused me of leading him on. Perhaps he was right. When he handed me that card to spend freely, I hesitated, swayed for a moment.
But did I truly like him?