To do: find title

 Like with most obsessions, I can’t easily tell how it all started. Nor can I point out the moment it turned from something I’d just do to help myself into something that compelled me so much it ruined everything.

My workplace was a high-pressure, fast-paced, innovation-driven environment, the “stakes” were high etcetera. I’d go in every day, and most of the year I’d only see the sun through the tall immaculate windows of our 27th-floor office. This was a running joke in my team; that the sun is prettier through those windows than from outside. Nobody explicitly told me what time I needed to come in or leave. My contract stipulated a 9-6 after all. But something about the work environment just made me feel like I had to be there as much as possible. Not even. It made me feel like I wanted to.

Within the first six months, I perfected all my routines for going to and coming back from the office. My outfits were flawless, and I was never late, with bad skin, spoiled manicure, or wrinkly clothes. It was challenging work, but mastering a smooth flow for my days soothed me. I’d wake up at 5.30, out of bed at the first ring of the alarm. Jake wouldn’t get up until much later, and I always managed to leave without making the slightest unnecessary noise. I’d head to the bathroom, and stare into the bright lights. Take off my protective overnight hair towel and my night face cream. I’d brush my teeth in exactly two minutes. Shower in five. My skincare routine consisted of eight steps, which I could complete optimally in four minutes and forty seconds. I’d let the cream sink in for five while I’d stretch on the yoga mat already laid out in the living room. My make-up would take 15 minutes, 17 if my contact lenses felt dry, 20 if I was meeting an important client. I’d do my hair in eight minutes and get dressed in three, the outfit picked the night before. I’d read the news with a cup of green tea for ten minutes, taking in the comforting silence of our flat. The meticulousness I had put into my habits filled me with reassurance. I’d step outside of my flat at exactly six thirty feeling pretty, competent, prepared.

At first, getting used to waking up so early was a nightmare. I’d open my eyes feeling I would rather just die. A chatty senior colleague once asked me over lunch if on my deathbed I would recall all the time I spent sleeping. It was a stupid rhetoric, it’s not like you can recall sleep anyway, that’s the whole point of sleeping. But the question still camped into my head. I powered through. In the first weeks, I’d jump out of bed and hop in the shower; pour freezing water over my face for minutes. I did this on the weekends too. If I still felt sleepy afterward, I’d force myself to chain-smoke three cigarettes on our extremely windy balcony. This brought another fight with Jake; he hated smoking. For the record, so did I. Luckily, we didn’t spend too much time arguing, because in a couple of months, I started waking up at 3 or 4 am, bathed in cold sweat, my heart racing with the stress of missing my alarm. I switched to smoking a bit of pot before bed instead, to sedate myself through the night. Jake despised it, but soon enough I dropped that too. I thus emerged into my fully grown, responsible, has-it-altogether early-riser self.

Later, I didn’t want Jake to know that I seemed to have become physically incapable of staying in bed later than 6 am, even on the weekends. My head was simply too busy to sleep. He’d already told me I worked too much. His masculinity was threatened because I made way more money than him. I’d never reply much. While I didn’t subscribe to this belief, and found it a bit insulting, that his masculinity should be tied to being more successful than his girlfriend, I decided it would be more productive to let it go. He had his own stuff going on anyway.

 I used the quiet mornings to reflect on my goals and all the ways I could make everything I have better, newer, prettier. I found that the beauty of my routines, be it gym or morning or bedtime, came from knowing exactly the following parameters: what you need, the time it takes you to complete things, and what you usually struggle with. Capitalism came to the rescue and I found the perfect way to get rid of wondering what to do for food, what to buy, where to order from, how much, and so on. Jake and I would often spend ages deciding in endless, tired conversations. The feeling of hunger combined with the inability to make a dinner decision was exasperating. For two weeks, I wrote down in a pocket notebook all the restaurants that Jake and I tried, the dishes we’ve had, our likes and dislikes, what came in good packaging and what didn’t. Then I created the perfect schedule to sort out every meal we should have in a day, every day. Long enough we wouldn’t repeat something more than twice every other week. I’d order extra and neatly pack us lunch for the next workday. Jake was grateful at first. I found more tricks. Shorten my morning routine by listening to the news on the tube instead of music. Replace my bathroom magazines with newspapers and science journals. Listen to interviews at the gym. Set up a new TV to watch documentaries while taking a bath. Jake used it for Netflix.

After seven months, things started looking up at work. My manager, an aloof man in his forties told me I was on track for a fast promotion. I gloated. I respected his work ethic and it seemed he was starting to respect mine. I gloated even more when I received my bonus. I bought Jake a new console and a gaming chair, to which he acted indignant, but later called his mate on FaceTime to brag. I transferred the rest of the money into my savings account.

Every other month, Jake and I would visit his parents in the suburbs. They loved having long dinners and jabbering. On the car ride back, I’d write into my daily logs app, which now complemented my pocket diary, a caption for my evening. “Fun dinner with the in-laws”, followed by snoring emojis.

I guess I wouldn’t have minded if Jake proposed. I just didn’t reckon it was the best moment to spend my resources on planning a wedding. But I think I would have gone with it. He was nice and gentle, and so was his family. I didn’t dread spending time with them. I would have loved for them to be more appreciative of my achievements. They liked speaking about foreign places, viral reels, nephews and relatives, or what the Tories had done again.

In the following ten months, people at work started jokingly asking me if I was a genius. I’d laugh agreeably, and urge them to stop being funny. I was modest, casual. Later in the bathroom, I’d look at myself in the well-lit, spotless mirror. I’d grin like someone had just shouted “Smile!” with a camera pointed at me. I’d say to myself, “I am a genius”, in a self-effacing way. I’d go back to my desk and note on my phone - “Bathroom break. Seven minutes.” I curated the perfect Spotify playlist to put my headphones on and dive into deep work mode. It was rhythmic enough to keep me energized, and optimistic, but not too engaging to make my mind wander. This used to happen to me before - listening to a song and starting to reminisce about my past, ruminate, drive myself into worry.

 Sometimes the guilt of wasting time would keep me up at night. Especially after going on a longer date with Jake. Even worse after meeting other people. I tried using my insomnia to catch up on the useful things I had neglected. I couldn’t start smoking pot again; I didn’t have the energy to deal with Jake’s reactions. So, I’d do supplemental reading, organize my inbox, speak to AI chatbots to improve my Russian. I realized quickly that sleeping so little would make me foggy at work, and that wasn’t aligned with my values. I started sneaking in small melatonin pills after brushing my teeth. I adapted quickly.

Two years into the job, my manager’s boss called me into his office. My heart began pounding. I rushed to the bathroom with my compact make-up kit. The way the products came out of the bag grounded me - exactly in the order I needed them to be: mouth spray, lipstick, blush, perfume bottle, hairbrush. I looked in the mirror, checked my posture, and stepped out of there with a calm pulse.

We spoke about general things for a while; how the department’s been doing, the expectations for the quarter, which clients were demanding morons with deep pockets. His office was two floors above mine, with minimalistic black and brown decor. I couldn’t stop looking around, taking it all in. I stepped outside of myself and watched the two people sitting down at the elegant dark wood desk. He was wearing a white shirt with silver cufflinks. He wore strong perfume; his hair was cut short, a mix of dark grey and black. I was wearing a pine green suit, the skirt the perfect length, the heels the perfect height. I belonged there, in that pretentious and stylish place, the sun setting on the horizon over one of the most exciting cities in the world.

He took some papers out of his desk drawer and announced I was getting promoted to senior management. In the files, multiple people had written down contributions I’ve made, ideas I’ve pitched. They spoke nicely about me, even the ones I thought secretly hated me. My mouth froze in an immense smile, and it took a lot of effort to bring it down to the ideal smiling face I already perfected for my LinkedIn profile picture. 

“Mr. Kessler”, I began thanking him.

“Call me Stephen”, he interrupted. I hesitated. I imagined him throwing his Dolce & Gabbana glasses, leaning in, and kissing me. Shyly at first. The blinds were already closed and he’d fuck me against his desk, overlooking the beautiful skyline. Or maybe he’d lay down on the table, and I’d ride him without taking my bra off. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to dominate or be dominated, whether this was about power at all. It all happened so quickly.

“Are you alright, Sarah? You seem flustered.”

“Sorry. I am so thrilled. About the promotion.” I gathered myself and we went over the contract for half an hour. When I left, I shook his hand firmly, confidently. I floated back to my desk and scribbled in my notebook the summary of my last two hours. To-do, number 73: “Have sex, maybe?”.

At home, Jake wasn’t thrilled with my news. This irritated me, I had wasted time telling him the details. I then remembered we were going through some sort of relationship crisis. Jake had been complaining about things. I acknowledged his grievances, put them down on my to-do list. I didn’t challenge him and we did things together. But he still wasn’t happy. That night he wanted to speak about our childhoods. “Knowing each other more deeply would strengthen our bond”, he explained. I didn’t hate his idea. I reckoned that maybe remembering things from my past would help me evolve. A flashing memory came to me: my childhood room, small and stuffy, a low shelf dedicated to dozens of my trophies from school competitions.

Instead, Jake asked if I ever fought with my parents. I thought it was a dumb question. All families fought. He wouldn’t drop it, saying there are degrees to fighting; for example, in our five years of relationship, we never breached level 3.

“Level three?!”, I blurted. I didn’t even know out of how many. He never explained his rating system, he just continued, “Look, I’ll start. I fought badly with my mom once. She found cigarettes in my school bag. I was trying out smoking with my mates, but I told her I was keeping them for a friend.”

“Oldest lie in the book”, I rolled my eyes. He laughed. I wanted to hear the rest.

 “My mom saw right through it. And let me tell you, she was pissed. She yelled about the dangers of smoking for twenty minutes. When she calmed down, she seemed sad and told me it hurt her I felt I should lie to her. Turns out she also had just found out that my uncle, her little brother, had lung cancer.”

I looked down. “Did he make it?”

“Yeah, thankfully. Now he, me, and my mom are close.” His face turned from worry to a sweet smile. We cuddled for a while. He continued, looking at the ceiling and chuckling. “At dinner, I said I was sorry and she forgave me. Things went back to normal, but the next Saturday, she asked me to drop by the store and get her a few things. She sent me off with this huge list of errands, including buying no less than thirty-seven different items from Aldi.” He laughed. “Thirty-seven! Giving me a taste of my own medicine, I suppose.”

We stood up and I sensed his eyes on me, waiting for my story. My jaw clenched. I felt nauseous. Of course Jake would have a heartfelt story about why he hated smoking. And I couldn’t believe that was his worst fight with a parent. I felt like he never had to try too hard for anything in his life. And now on top of that, his family were all saints. When I didn’t say anything, he looked down as if in pity. I hated that.

He changed the question. “In school, did you use to hate anyone?” He put “hate” in air quotes. I figured maybe if I’d just say one thing, he’d release me from this struggle. I decided blurting memories like that was stupid. Work so hard to get where you are for your partner to suddenly crave meeting a different version of you. One that you tried so hard to change.

“This girl, Alice. She didn’t do much, but my mother would always parade her achievements in front of me. Alice’s dad was my mom’s boss, or some stupid shit like that.” There. I said something.

Jake swallowed loudly. He was uncomfortable, I could tell. I left the room embarrassed and he followed almost an hour later. In bed, he hugged me tight and tried to touch me. I turned away. I needed to get up early for work.

We broke up shortly after that. I didn’t see it coming when he told me, but once it happened, I dealt with it quickly and cleanly. I went to the office on a Saturday to let him pack his things in peace. We never spoke about who’d move out, but I doubted he could afford the rent on his own. I found it best not to bring it up. The flat felt empty in the first couple of days. I added, “Missing Jake: 32 minutes.” I filled the place with gym equipment and a bigger desk. I took Jake’s errands off my lists. It felt cathartic, productive. I dedicated more time to gathering metrics about my life. I strictly quantified the hours and quality of sleep I’d get. I’d track my moods, my headaches, my moments of weakness. I’d use AI tools to spot patterns. Even my periods became perfectly aligned.

Jake called me some four months after our break-up. I was in great shape. Senior management fit me like a glove. It took up a lot of time, but I was supervising three huge projects, and the main one, SCORPIO, was promising unprecedented financial gains. Stephen spoke about it all the time. I thought Jake might be calling because he regretted leaving me, he missed the comfort of our life together. He had moved with two mates in a basement in Camden. I considered responding with something incredibly patronizing but decided it would be a waste of breath.

“Hello”.

“Sarah, hey, hi, it’s Jake”. He was panting. “Are you alright?”

I hesitated, disgruntled. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t seen?!” He seemed genuinely shocked I hadn’t read the news. Annoyingly, an old client had decided to call and chat me up when I was supposed to listen to my morning podcast.

“Wow, I can’t believe you don’t know. Your company is in deep shit. It’s all over the news.”

Did he really stoop so low to play a cheap joke on me as revenge?

As further humiliation?

“Fuck you, Jake.”

“Jesus Christ?! Sarah, look it up - something about fraud in a massive petrol deal. Scorpio or something. And fuck you too, I called to check on you.”

He hung up. The scandal was all over social media, my name dragged into multiple articles.

My mind turned numb, frozen. The bright screens in front of my eyes morphed into reams of white, impeccable sheets of paper, all warm from the copier. In the corner of every document, my elegant, intensively rehearsed cursive signature.

I used to love the smell of printer ink when I was a little girl. I’d play dress-up games for hours on my dad’s PC and print out all the outfits, staple them together to make a fashion magazine. Time just flew in those moments, and I wasn’t fighting so hard to keep it still.

*

“Writing Jake a heartfelt apology. 259 minutes.”