Chapter Text

Resignation Letter

Today, I finally quit my job.

I can assure you, it wasn’t an impulsive decision. These past three years working as an office assistant at this dying company took a piece of my youth with them.

It all started in that fateful month of May 2016, when I was in my third semester of business school and desperately needed a job. One night, out of sheer panic, I sent out 20 résumés and cover letters, hoping someone would respond that week. And one did. I remember feeling relieved — almost happy.

Now, I’m relieved to be walking away.

Stacks and stacks of paper used to pile up in front of me. My computer was so old that even basic tools froze constantly, delaying everything in a never-ending loop. Because of that, eight-hour workdays often turned into nine, sometimes ten. In silence, I endured the awful conditions, studied after hours, and kept up with other obligations.

But now, even though it feels surreal, with this final signature, it all ends here.

While I held the pen in my boss’s office, I could hear the sputtering of the printer struggling to push out a single sheet. The beige phone kept ringing over and over. The scene felt melancholic — like some kind of silent depression lived in every piece of furniture, every corner of that place. Lifeless.

“I wish I could say I’m happy for you, Lúcia. But honestly, it’s hard to find someone as committed as you. Are you sure you won’t reconsider that fifteen percent raise?” he asked, staring at me with pleading eyes, awkward in his chair, trying to sound friendly.

After a while working there, it became obvious why he hired me: my looks. Those eyes — old and predatory — followed me constantly, watching who I was more than what I did. Always expecting something. Judging in silence. Throwing out suggestive comments and brushing against me when he shouldn’t have. Eventually, my consistency in work was acknowledged. That’s when he started piling more and more on me — unpaid overtime, heavy assignments — while continuing his pathetic flirting.

That “offer” was a sick joke.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Sim’s, but I’ve worked hard for this opportunity in the public sector,” I said softly, bending down to pick up the paper that now certified my freedom.

Two deep lines creased his forehead as I signed quickly, without hesitation. The paper crumpled slightly from my haste, ink slightly smudged.

“Well, alright then. Public Prosecutor’s Office, huh? Fifteen percent’s not good enough for you…” he muttered, forcing a short, fake sigh — like he was trying not to sound bitter. “If you ever want to come back, I could always find a spot for you…”

He grabbed the resignation form a bit too roughly and made a copy, handing it to me almost immediately. It felt like everything was over. But then, he suddenly pushed his chair back with a loud creak and stood up, walking around the desk.

“How about a goodbye hug to send you properly?”

I froze. Took a deep breath.

“I think it’s best to keep things formal until the end, Mr. Sim’s,” I replied with a polite smile, my body on alert. At that moment, his middle-aged appearance wilted — like a dried-out prune.

I swear, I have nothing against bald men in their fifties, standing at five foot seven — but did he really have to come with that personality? It was as if his looks carried the guilt for the kind of man he was underneath. Like his intentions leaked out of every gesture, every glance. So unsettling.

I stepped aside and offered a handshake instead.

“Always so formal and polite. That’s what we expect from a small-town girl, isn’t it?” he said, shaking my hand with a little too much enthusiasm, his palms sweaty and his smile fake.

I swallowed hard and smiled. I just had to walk out. The anxiety was rising in me.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Miss Anselin. If you ever miss this place, you know my door’s always open...”

Oh, I’ll miss it, alright…

The endless workload that gave me chronic migraines I still can’t manage.
The burnout knocking at my door.
The sleepless nights and miserable work conditions.
The harassment. The vulgar stares.

That’s the response I wanted to give. The one my inner voice screamed at me to let out.

Instead, I just smiled again and said a simple “bye,” closing the old, worn-out door behind me. Above my head, on a faded sign in bold, exaggerated lettering, the name stared back at me:

“Head Accountant: Steve Sim’s.”

Now, from the outside, it looked even smaller. Almost insignificant. No longer my problem. My heart skipped. The anxiety was slowly turning into a kind of quiet euphoria — one I could only feel inside, though I kept a calm face.

I turned my back and stepped away, heading back into the office where I had spent these years.

Inside the employee accounting room, I found my box already packed on the desk, holding only a few personal belongings. I had chosen to take only the essentials: a framed photo of me, my sister, and our dog; a mug gifted to me by Margareth, my coworker; two unused notebooks; a few pens; and the calendar I had bought myself.

Everything else was disposable.

As I picked up the box, Margareth walked in with Kate, the intern. She looked stunning, as always — curly hair and that infectious smile. She ran over to me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“Lúcia Anselin, you were really gonna leave with that box without saying goodbye? I step away for fifteen minutes and lose my chance to cry on you?” she teased, sniffling as she squeezed me.

Kate stood behind her, patient and kind, waiting her turn.

“You think I’m moving to the other side of the country? The Public Prosecutor’s Office is a fifteen-minute walk from here. Come on — our town barely has thirty thousand people. You’ll probably run into me every day,” I replied, laughing at her dramatic outburst.

I might be wrong, but I think I saw one or two real tears fall from her face.

Margareth was the most experienced accountant in the office. Through all the hard times, she and Kate were the best things that happened to me here. They stood by me during my worst stress episodes — when the migraines got so bad, they covered for me so I could lie down until the pain eased.

Kate, who had joined a year ago, is actually Sim’s niece. That gave me some comfort. At least she wouldn’t be exploited like the rest of us and could leave whenever she wanted. The nearly 100% annual turnover rate wouldn’t apply to her — or to Margareth. Without Margareth, this place would’ve fallen apart long ago.

“You promise you’ll call? Text? Promise you won’t abandon us once you get rich?” Kate said, holding both my arms with a playful look she tried to hide.

“I promise I’ll come pick you both up in my Porsche 911 Turbo for lunch by the beach,” I joked, sticking out my tongue at her.

“Well... I don’t know anything about cars, but I hope that one’s expensive enough,” Kate laughed.

Margareth, now more composed, shook her head and smiled:

“Oh honey… you can bet it is.”

I let out a laugh and pulled them both in for a group hug. Then I grabbed my box and the folder with my signed resignation copy.

“I’d love to stay and talk about the luxury car I’ll probably never own, but I’ve gotta go, girls. There’s stuff to do. We’ve said our goodbyes, we’ve cried — but just know it was an honor to work with you both. I’m free this weekend if you wanna go out.”

“We’re wishing you all the best in this new chapter. May you shine brighter every day. I hope you’ve found something you truly love,” Margareth said, opening the door for me. “It’ll be nice to talk somewhere more private next time — without our curbside sergeant spying on us.”

Kate smiled and nodded. I smiled too. Together, we walked to my car — an old model, but it ran just as well as any new vehicle. Took me two years of tight budgeting to buy it. One of the few things that kept me going.

I opened the trunk and placed the folder and the box inside.

“If you need me, I’m just fifteen minutes away!” I called out, joking.

“Just don’t go any farther — and don’t come back to arrest us,” Kate teased, referring to my new job, winking as they stepped toward the building.

I waved goodbye and slipped into the driver’s seat, waiting until they disappeared inside. But instead of starting the engine, I rolled down the windows and looked at that little building for a few quiet moments, my head resting lightly on the seat.

That tiny building... How could it have brought me so many terrible memories? From the outside, it looked modest, even a little cozy.

Its structure was old, with two large wooden doors — one always open. The walls were a pale, textured yellow, with white trims around the windows and doorframes, also wood. Outside, a large, almost aggressive sign read:

“Sim’s Accounting Services — Since 1998.”

Steve Sim’s: terrorizing people since 1998, I thought, letting out a small, bitter smile.

“Well… hoping we never meet again,” I murmured.

I turned the key and started the car.