Out of Office, Permanently

The office smelled like burnt coffee and broken promises. Jenna sat at her desk, posture perfect but heart rotting. Another email pinged into her inbox. The fifth "urgent" request before 9 a.m., sent by a manager who hadn’t looked her in the eye in over two years. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard like a pianist about to perform, except this wasn’t music. It was the slow erosion of her soul by keystroke.

She looked around the open-plan graveyard. The gray carpet sucked the color from everything. Artificial plants stood like fake smiles, and the overhead fluorescents buzzed with the enthusiasm of a dying fly. Her coworkers wore the same expressions they had yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Eyes vacant. Shoulders hunched. Hope amputated.

Jenna had once cared. A lot, actually. She remembered arriving early, staying late, volunteering for extra projects. She believed that hard work was noticed, that merit meant something. She believed in performance reviews, professional development seminars, team-building retreats. Now she knew better.

The cracks had started with the Brandon incident. He was a junior analyst, quiet but razor-sharp. Jenna had mentored him for months, guiding him through projects that should have earned both of them recognition. Instead, he was let go during a "budget realignment," while the director—who botched the presentation Brandon had saved—got promoted. Jenna spent that night staring at her ceiling, wondering how failure had become currency.

Then came the emergency weekend. The CEO demanded an overnight proposal rewrite for a pitch they weren’t even leading. Jenna worked until 3 a.m., alone, because everyone else had disappeared. Monday morning, the execs used her work without credit. Her manager had the gall to say, "Team effort. Good hustle."

And finally, last month. Her mother had a health scare—mild stroke. Jenna requested time off. It took two weeks to get an answer. When she finally got to her mother's side, her inbox held passive-aggressive notes about her "prolonged absence." That was the moment the thread snapped.

She wasn’t a person here. She was a role. And roles could be refilled.

It hadn’t always been like this. In her first year, Jenna had been the rising star. Bright-eyed, razor-sharp, praised for her precision and hustle. Her manager at the time, a no-nonsense woman named Carla, had taken her under her wing. Jenna still remembered Carla's mantra: "If you’re not building your own ladder, you’re climbing someone else’s." But Carla had been pushed out during a round of "organizational streamlining," replaced by someone who knew how to smile in meetings but couldn’t find his own inbox without help.

The culture shifted. The meetings got longer and more pointless. Promotions started going to people who played golf with upper management, not the ones doing the actual work. Jenna adapted, thinking she could outwork the chaos. That was her mistake.

Now, after years of grinding, of missed birthdays and ignored gut feelings, she was just another burnt-out asset.

Her coffee was cold.

Her patience, colder.

She clicked "Reply All."

"You know what? I quit."

She paused, surprised at how natural it felt to write. Like an old song she hadn't heard in years but still knew by heart.

She typed:

"I quit pretending any of this matters. I quit sacrificing my time, my health, and my sanity for a place that rewards burnout with badges and silence with promotions. I quit pretending 'team player' means 'do everything and never complain.' I quit rewarding dysfunction with obedience. I quit today, not out of weakness, but because I remember who I was before this place taught me to forget."

Click.

Send.

For a moment, everything was still. Like the calm after a bomb drops but before anyone hears the explosion.

She stood.

No one noticed.

She grabbed her coat, left the company-issued laptop on the desk like a sacrificial lamb, and walked out. No exit interview. No heartfelt farewell. Not even a glance back.

Outside, the air was sharp with November's teeth. But it felt like oxygen for the first time in months. The chill bit her cheeks, but she welcomed it. It reminded her she was still alive.

She walked. Nowhere in particular. Just away. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, probably her manager or HR or maybe even someone pretending to be concerned. She ignored it. Let them wonder. Let them scramble. Let them spin her exit into a "personal leave" or a "career pivot." That was their problem now.

She passed a coffee shop she used to like before her schedule turned caffeine into survival fuel. She went in, ordered a latte with actual time to drink it, and sat by the window.

Across the street was a park. There were kids on the swings, a man jogging, a couple arguing about something and laughing a moment later. Real life. Things that mattered. Things she hadn’t had time to see while chained to KPIs and Q4 targets.

She sipped.

It tasted like freedom.

The door chimed and a woman with a laptop took the table next to hers. Jenna caught her eye and smiled. The woman smiled back, then frowned slightly, looking at Jenna's clothes—neatly ironed, corporate chic.

"Half-day?" she asked.

Jenna chuckled. "Something like that."

"I used to work in finance," the woman offered. "Quit a year ago. Best thing I ever did."

Jenna raised her cup. "Here’s to knowing when to walk away."

They clinked coffee cups. No contracts. No jargon. Just two women, survivors of the same war.

By noon, she was at home. She sat on her couch, shoes off, legs curled beneath her. Her cat, Mozzie, climbed into her lap like she hadn’t seen him in years. Maybe she hadn’t, not really. He purred as if to say, Took you long enough.

She opened her laptop—her own, not the company's. She opened a blank document.

What now?

She didn't know.

And for the first time in a decade, not knowing didn't terrify her. It thrilled her.

She started typing.

Not an application. Not a resume.

A story.

About a woman who woke up one day and remembered she had a name, not just a title. Who stopped trading her time for validation. Who walked out not because she had a backup plan, but because she was the plan.

The words came fast. Honest. Sharp. Full of fire.

Mozzie stretched and settled into sleep.

Outside, clouds gathered, but they looked less like a threat and more like a challenge.

She smiled.

She had quit the job.

But not herself.

And the story she was writing? It was only the beginning.