The afternoon sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting bright patches of light on the gray carpet. Amy sat on the third step of the fire escape, clutching the cup of latte—which had long since lost its warmth—tightly in her hand.
Just five minutes earlier, she had been smiling as she explained the third proposal to the client in the conference room, acknowledging the team’s oversight in data verification in a highly professional tone. The moment she stepped out of the conference room and closed the door, the muscles in her face seemed to suddenly lose their support, and a stinging sensation spread without warning from her nose to her eyes.
Instead of returning to her desk, she pushed open the heavy fire door. The stairwell was quiet, with only the low hum of the ventilation ducts, like a long, drawn-out sigh. Here, there was no clacking of keyboards, no message alerts, and no one demanding that she maintain “emotional stability.”
Amy lowered her head, and the tears finally fell.
She cried quietly, careful not to make too much noise, afraid of disturbing her colleagues in a meeting on the floor next door. She wasn’t crying out of hurt or anger, but simply because she was so exhausted. This kind of exhaustion couldn’t be relieved by a good night’s sleep; it was more like a grain of sand in her shoe—something she didn’t notice while walking, but with every step, it wore away at the sole of her foot.
She recalled leaving home that morning while her daughter was still fast asleep, clutching an old teddy bear tightly in her hand; she remembered how, last night, by the time she’d finished replying to her last email, the sound of traffic had already faded from outside the window; she remembered just a moment ago in the break room, when a colleague casually asked, “Any plans for the weekend?” and she realized she didn’t even have the energy to zone out, let alone make plans for the weekend.
These ten minutes were the only moment of the day that truly belonged to her.
Here, she didn’t have to be the ever-reliable Amy, the gentle and patient mother, or the dutiful daughter. She was just an ordinary person in the concrete jungle of the city, who occasionally needed to stop and catch her breath.
Tears trickled into her mouth, carrying a faint saltiness mixed with the bitterness of coffee. She took a deep breath; the stairwell was filled with the faint scent of dust and cleaning supplies—a rough yet genuine sense of comfort.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket—it was a voice message from her daughter: “Mom, come home early.”
Amy looked up and gently wiped her face with her sleeve. Facing the slightly tarnished mirror in the stairwell, she smoothed her slightly tousled bangs and brushed off imaginary dust from her blazer.
The person in the mirror still had slightly red eyes, but her gaze had regained its focus.
She stood up and pushed open the heavy fire door. The cool air from the hallway hit her face; a printer was spitting out paper, and the coffee machine was gurgling. Everything was as usual—the world hadn’t stopped turning because of her ten-minute break.
But Amy knew that something had changed.
She set off toward her workstation. Her stride remained steady, but this time, her shoulders were slightly more relaxed.
Life went on, but that was okay. At least, for those ten minutes, she had truly embraced herself.
