The interview

I was twenty minutes early.

Which, according to the internet, was fifteen minutes too early. But being poor, hungover, and desperate made me want to arrive as if punctuality alone could cure cancer or cover hospital bills.

Well, maybe it could. Perhaps I’m just about to find out.

One Vanderbilt towered above me like a monument to wealth and precision, all glass and steel that reflected a version of me I barely recognized.

It wasn’t exactly how it was featured and described in magazines, painted high against the sky, in TV shows, and on billboards. Staring at it in person made me realize this was another world entirely.

More perfect. A real-life fantasy.

Self-doubts kicked in, and I paused midway, letting the Manhattan breeze spank my figure. It seems like it was mocking me. Well, I didn't care.

My desperation was far greater than my greatest insecurities. Giving up felt like walking away from an opportunity for mama’s treatment and I wasn't going to let it ruin my biggest shred of hope.

“I can do it,” I muttered to myself, taking a deep breath, staring at the building like I belonged.

Yes. I did. For now.

My borrowed blazer pinched at the shoulders. The sensible pumps I’d gotten from Sophia were half a size too tight. And the sleek low bun I’d twisted into my silver hair was held together by more hope than bobby pins.

But I looked like I belonged.

Until I walked in.

Oh. My. God.

The moment the revolving doors whooshed shut behind me, I realized this place wasn’t built for people like me. The marble floors were so glossy I could see my shame in them. People in tailored suits and expensive heels moved like they were on invisible rails — fluid, fast, confident.

I couldn't stop the gasp that escaped my lips, or the way my jaw dropped. I once believed the magnificence of it was exaggerated by the press and people in NY, but now, the exaggeration was fair.

I was so lost in delusion that I nearly bumped into someone.

“Shit,” I curse, stepping back immediately, but he didn't seem to care, as he walked past except his glare like he knew I didn't belong in this world.

I couldn't blame him. Sometimes, I questioned myself too. Now, most especially.

With a deep breath, I stepped up to the security desk.

“Name?” the woman asked, not looking up from her screen.

“Olivia Hayes. I have an interview with GrayHill Enterprises. 9:30.”

She tapped away, a few rapid keystrokes, then nodded without a smile. “52nd floor. Use the elevators to your right. ID?”

I handed her my driver’s license with shaking hands. She gave it a glance, buzzed me through the gate, and just like that, I was ascending.

The elevator ride was silent but heavy. My reflection stared back from polished chrome. My ink-black hair defined my face-card, and the structure of my high cheekbones.

Yep. I had to dye my hair black to prevent unnecessary attention.

There was times people looked at me, and mostly, at my hair in a way that made me feel unwanted. The awkwardness. Shock. Difference. Sometimes, I heard the whispers from little children saying, “Mummy, is that a witch?”

My hair color wasn't something earth took to heart and even God, because I had to question severally times why I had this hair color. My mom was purely black. Although, I never knew who my father was, I also don't think he had silver hair.

Staring at my reflection with this hair color made me seem… different. Stong. Powerful. A whole regime that I didn't create. Something I’m not. Something I am far from.

I tried not to think about how fake my confidence was. I tried not to think about Mom. Or the tumor pressing into her brain. Or how much the surgery costs. Or that I’d nearly broken into a Bugatti last night.

Shitt.

The memory hit my head with a loud bang as I recalled the instant from last night. However, I was cut off from proceeding further when the doors opened with a soft *ding.*

My attention instantly glided to my mission; secure the job.

The 52nd floor looked like the cover of a magazine: all minimalist white, sharp angles, and tall windows that overlooked Manhattan like the city was a game board.

At the reception desk sat a woman in a navy pantsuit, airbrushed to perfection. My breath almost caught. She was beautiful.

“Miss Hayes?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked a little. “Here for the 9:30.”

She smiled politely. “You can have a seat. They’ll call you shortly.”

There was something about her smile that was reassuring and I let it fill the darkest depth of my doubts.

I sat down next to a guy in loafers that probably cost more than my rent. He was scrolling through something on his tablet and barely glanced my way. Another girl had a sleek folder clutched in both hands like it held her destiny.

Maybe it did.

Twenty minutes passed. I rehearsed answers in my head, smoothed my blazer again and again. And finally, after twenty minutes of forced calm, the door beside reception opened.

“Miss Hayes?”

I stood, my palms were sweating and my legs wobbled as I smoothed down my blazer for the nth time, and walked in.

The interview room had a long table, a view of the Chrysler Building, and two people seated across from me. A man in a gray suit with a Rolex that flashed every time he moved, and a woman with glasses and a no-nonsense ponytail.

Emphasis on the ‘no-nonsense’.

“Thank you for coming in, Olivia,” the man said. “We’ve reviewed your application and we’re excited to learn more.”

The 52nd floor opened like the cover of Architectural Digest. Minimalist white walls. Sharp angles. Windows that framed Manhattan like a curated piece of art. This wasn’t just an office. It was a different universe.

I smiled, returning the gesture, hopefully praying this time that it was professional. “Thanks for having me,” I croaked, slightly clearing my throat.

I already felt I fucked up. Maybe that little unprofessionalism had summed up their mind that I wasn't worth it.

Maybe my appearance isn't worth it.

My head suddenly felt like it was floating. I was sure it was due to my nervousness and the semi-hangover from last two nights ago.

Sophia’s disgusting smoothie helped a lot this morning. I had to down three cups yesterday and one this morning. Despite the awful taste, I was pretty grateful because it energized my sore muscles.

But my brain was still fried. Perhaps at the weight of my thought or the fact that I wasn't breathing.

God, I need to stop thinking, because thinking alone is a full-time job. And I needed all my sanity to secure this job.

“So,” I finally heard her voice, and as expected, it was all sharp and professional, one that I wished I could borrow for the time being. “What makes you capable of this job?”

First question.

And I have my first answer.

I responded as professionally as I could fake, eliminating my nervousness till at least, I walked out of this building.

They asked another. And another. And another.

So I gave them what I had. My internships. My volunteer work. My brief stint running social media for a nonprofit nobody had heard of.

When I cracked a joke, they smiled.

Gradually, my nervousness dissipated and I became comfortable. But the tension was still there especially what happened next.

When I mentioned the gap in my résumé—caring for my mother, and eventually, for myself. I skipped my health issues, for now, so it doesn't make me seem incapable, however, it doesn’t come with a pause button.

The room shifted and their pens stopped moving.

At that point, I realized I indeed made mention of my health issues.

Shit, shit, shit.

But it was already too late. I felt the decision. Silent. Immediate. Irrevocable.

“Thanks for your time,” And that was it.

Still, I thanked them. Still, I smiled. And walked out like I hadn’t just been punched in the chest.

Breathe, Olivia…

I took in a deep breath as soon as I walked out, meeting the faces of the people I was once in. The place I sat rehearsing my answers.

I did well. I was sure.

And a faint smile blossomed on my face, because something told me that this time, I was securing this job.

Maybe my overconfidence was a result of my nervousness, but I somehow held onto the thin rope that the world doesn't really revolve around appearances.

It’s the skill.

And I nailed it. Better than I’ve ever done I my entire life.

As soon as I reached the elevator, the receptionist’s voice stopped me.

“Miss Hayes?”

I turned, the smile instantly fading to a professional one.

Next step: Make an impression.

There was something in the look she gave me that made my heart lose its pace. I knew what was coming but I didn't want to believe it.

“They wanted me to let you know—they’ve already made a decision. They’ll be moving forward with other candidates.”

It hit harder than it should’ve.

And I held myself to prevent the blurriness behind my eyes. A dramatic buzz filled my eardrums, and the light felt like a bite on my skin.

I knew it-

My voice felt constricted, and I swallowed the lump down my throat, holding the hot tears that burned my eyes.

“Oh,” No! I said, the word tight and sharp in my throat. “Thanks.” Please! I really do need this job!

But the words remained stuck in my head, refusing to bypass my sore throat.

I pressed the elevator button harder than necessary and I stood there, frozen, my tears impatiently waiting for the doors to slide shut.

Her pitiful gaze was the last thing I saw in that building.

I faced the doors as they slid shut, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t want to keep it together.

My hands clenched at my sides and I broke down.

My silent sobs filled the air and I leaned on the elevator wall, clutching my chest.

I’d tried. I’d tried so damn hard. This job was supposed to be the turning point. The miracle. And now?

Nothing.

Just silence and my reflection. A weeping girl in borrowed clothes pretending not to fall apart.

Tears burned the corners of my eyes, falling freely without stopping. I tried so hard to stop it but it seemed like my body always moved against my will.

I was stupid enough to think I fit here. Stupid enough to dream beyond my imagination.

Securing a job in the world’s biggest companies was like trying to count water drops.

There’s a pain that comes with putting all your hope on something and having it disappear right before your eyes. It was sharp and brutal, like a slow poison.

I wanted to yank my hair in frustration, to scream out loud at my misfortune, but the sound never left my throat, except for a quiet whimper.

It felt like the end. But a part of me knew it wasn’t.

Not yet.

I could still apply for jobs elsewhere. Still work harder than normal waitresses and do hefty jobs until I raise enough cash.

The voice in my head was like my motivation, only lasting for a few hours. Was that the gift of cancer?

I wanted to scoff, and ended up blowing a few strands of my hair off my sticky face.

This isn't the end.

And I stared at my reflection, staring back at me. I can't give up on Mama. I can't. I just can't.

Faint determination boiled in my veins and I sniffed, wiping away my tears, and rearranging my blazers like I had a reason to survive. Truth is, I did. But not for my sake.

It was little, but I held onto it until I got home. I just needed something to drift my mind away from this until I can fully break down.

Finally, the world decided to mock me again. This time, the elevator ridiculed my reflection like it knew my future.

*Ding.*

The elevator stopped at floor 45 and the doors opened, interrupting my thoughts because someone stepped in, seizing my breath.