Love on a Shoestring

The glow from the computer screen stung my eyes, my fingers hovering over the mouse but afraid to hit refresh again—those words, "Review Failed," were already burned into my mind like a brand. This was the fifth time. Since the first time I met the promotion threshold three years ago, I passed every initial screening and interview, only to stumble at the final hurdle every single time. It felt like a soggy cotton ball was stuffed in my chest, suffocating me, making it hard to breathe, and even my fingertips turned icy cold. My mobile suddenly buzzed, "Mom"'s name flashing repeatedly on the screen. I swiped to answer, and my mother's anxious voice came through: "Charles, the girl I mentioned last time — are you going to meet her or not? You're almost thirty, your career's going nowhere, and your love life's stuck. I haven't slept a wink because of it!" "Mom, I just wrapped up something here. Let's wait a little longer on that." I held the phone with a trembling voice and, before my mother could start nagging again, I quickly hung up. I put down the phone and stared at Cindy Scott's W Chat profile picture — my direct superior at work, and the woman I've been with for three years. Before the last promotion, she held my hand and said, "Don't worry, I've already spoken to the higher-ups. This time, it's definitely going to happen." The smile in her eyes back then was so genuine—how did it all evaporate now? I gripped my mobile phone tightly, stood up, and walked toward her office, my steps growing faster, my mind flooded with urgent questions. Just as I reached the office door, before I could even raise my hand to knock, the conversation inside hit me like a splash of cold water. "Are you really planning to promote Charles Lynn?" It was Mr. Clark from Marketing, his voice tinged with casual suspicion. "Promotion?" Cindy Scott's laughter came through—a sound I'd never heard before, laced with a sharp, dismissive arrogance. "He's just a dependable worker—low cost, obedient. Keeping him around to do menial tasks works perfectly for me." "If he really got promoted into management, who'd still be my free labor?" My feet felt rooted to the spot, my blood running ice cold. Free labor? After three years of hard work, is that all I mean to her? "What about the two of you then..." Mr. Clark asked again, a hint of curiosity creeping into his voice. "Relationship?" Cindy Scott cut him off sharply, her voice as cold as ice. "It's nothing more than a mutually convenient arrangement." He follows my orders without question. I occasionally give him a little reward—this low-cost investment is much easier than dealing with a regular subordinate. "But he seems really serious about it. He's been hoping for this promotion for a long time." "Hoping won't help." Cindy Scott's voice grew colder. "With his abilities, he simply can't handle a management role. Besides, I never intended to have a future with him." My hand froze halfway as I pushed the door open, and my heart felt like it was hit hard by a blunt object, the pain making my vision go dark. So all those three years of daily closeness, five times of heartfelt hope—it was all just my own self-delusion. The door creaked as I pushed it open. Cindy Scott looked up and caught my eye; a flicker of panic crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. She stood and feigned surprise: "Charles Lynn?" "What are you doing here?" "Why shouldn't I be here?" My voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, as I locked eyes with her. "Cindy, was what you just said true?" Her eyes flickered away, avoiding my gaze, and she reached out to grab my arm. "You heard wrong. I was just talking about work with Mr. Clark." "Work stuff about that 'low-cost investment' project of mine?" I took a step back, avoiding her hand, my gaze locked on hers. "You said I wasn't capable enough, that you never intended to have a future with me—did I hear that wrong?" Seeing this, Mr. Clark quickly stood up to ease the tension. "You two talk, I'll step out for a while." He hurried out, leaving only Cindy and me in the office. The air was so heavy it felt like you could wring water from it. "Charles, some things aren't what you think. Please let me explain." Cindy tried to move closer to me again. I ignored her, turned to my desk, and pulled out the reconsideration application I had prepared long ago—my signature still fresh with ink, but now it felt like a joke. I grabbed the application form and tore it in two with both hands. With a ripping sound, the paper broke into pieces, scattering across the desk. "What are you doing!" Cindy Scott cried out as she rushed over, trying to gather the torn pieces. "Nothing." I looked at her, the last shred of hope inside me shattering. "Cindy, let's call it quits." After saying that, I didn't look at her again. I grabbed my phone and keys from the desk and walked straight out of the office building. The cold wind hit my face outside. I opened the ticket app and quickly bought a ticket on the earliest high-speed train home — this city, this company, this relationship, all of it made me feel sick.