C5 A Breath I Couldn’t Take

The office was unusually quiet that morning. The kind of silence that carried weight—not from tension, but exhaustion. Even the humming of the overhead lights seemed softer, more respectful somehow. I had been staring at the glowing screen of my laptop for twenty minutes, fingers poised over the keyboard, heart nowhere near the emails piling up in my inbox.

Sleep had barely touched me the night before. My mind was running on low fuel and long shadows. The revelation about Damien’s involvement was buried beneath layers of new worry. But today—I wanted none of that. Just air. Just peace.

Jenna leaned against my desk with two hot cups of coffee. She handed me one, her eyes doing a sweep of my face.

“You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out,” she said lightly, but her voice was laced with concern.

“Thanks for the poetic compliment,” I murmured, managing a weak smile.

“No really, Mira. You need a break. Like a real one. Unplug, beach breeze, fruity drinks, everything. Let’s just disappear for a few days. It’s not like the building will collapse if you take some time off.”

I stared at her for a moment. Part of me wanted to believe that. Part of me knew better.

“I was thinking the same thing, actually,” I said, sipping the bitter warmth. “Maybe we could rent that little cabin in Vermont? The one we talked about during grad school?”

Jenna’s face lit up. “With the stone fireplace and clawfoot tub? Yes. Say the word and I’ll pack the wine and fuzzy socks.”

I chuckled, the first real laugh I’d had in days. “Then it’s a plan.”

By noon, I’d composed a short, professional letter requesting a few days off—no more than five. I didn’t over-explain, didn’t beg, just a simple note citing stress and a need to reset. I slipped it into Dominic’s personal inbox, knowing he checked it before lunch.

The rest of the day moved in slow motion. I didn’t press for a response. I gave him time.

At 3:37 p.m., a notification pinged on my screen.

Subject: Re: Time Off Request

From: Dominic Vale

To: Mira Dawson

> Miss Dawson,

At this time, I’m unable to approve your request for personal leave. We are entering a critical planning phase, and your presence is required.

Regards,

Dominic Vale

That was it.

No softness. No acknowledgment of the weight I’d been carrying. Just his signature, clean and cold.

Jenna was seated nearby and caught the shift in my posture immediately. “No?”

I shook my head once, eyes still on the email.

“Well,” she said, voice quieter now. “We’ll find another time. Maybe even just a weekend away. I’ll drive.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away. I was caught in the hollow of something I couldn’t quite name. Disappointment, sure—but also something softer, more aching.

I didn’t just want a break. I needed one.

And Dominic, for all his cold brilliance, either didn’t see it—or didn’t care to.

The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room as I read Dominic's reply for the third time. The same cold, clipped tone he always used when he was trying to keep a wall between us. Professional. Distant. Detached.

I closed my laptop gently, as if any sudden movement might make the weight in my chest worse. I sat still, fingers folded in my lap, listening to the faint sound of rain brushing against the windows.

This wasn’t about just needing rest anymore.

It was about being invisible.

Jenna glanced at me from across her desk, not saying anything this time. She didn't need to. Her silence was its own comfort, and in it, I allowed myself to take a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

I went to the breakroom, poured a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. For a moment, I stared out the small square window above the sink. The city was smudged in gray—the kind of day that made you want to stay in bed, under heavy blankets, with nothing but your own quiet thoughts to fill the silence.

My body felt heavy. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel a little too loud, a little too sharp. I didn't cry—I was past crying. What I felt was more subtle. A soft ache that curled itself inside me, like a bruise I couldn't touch.

Back at my desk, I tried to work. I opened reports, stared at them blankly, typed sentences and deleted them. Time passed, but nothing moved.

Around five, the office started to thin out. People whispered goodbyes, collected coats, and disappeared behind the elevator doors. I remained at my desk, waiting for the silence to settle again. Jenna came to me gently, hand brushing my arm.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

I nodded. She didn’t press me for words.

Outside, the rain had softened into mist. The streets glistened under the streetlights, and the soft splash of our heels on wet pavement sounded like a quiet lullaby.

We walked in silence until we reached her car. Once inside, I rested my head against the cool glass of the window.

“I’m going to ask him again,” I said finally, my voice quieter than usual.

Jenna gave a low sigh, starting the engine. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know. But I need this.”

She nodded. “We’ll make it happen, one way or another.”

When I got home, I opened my planner and scribbled on a blank page:

“I’m not asking to disappear. I’m just asking to breathe.”

I wasn’t sure who I was writing to—myself, or Dominic.

Maybe both.

I folded the page and tucked it into the drawer beside my bed.

Maybe tomorrow I’d slip it onto his desk.

Or maybe… I’d finally learn how to take a break without asking permission.

The next morning, the sun peeked gently through my curtains, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. I sat at the edge of my bed, the folded note still in my hand. I hadn’t slipped it onto Dominic’s desk yesterday. Maybe I was afraid of his silence—of the way it always said more than his words ever did. But something in me was shifting. Maybe I didn’t need a signed form or a nod of approval to step away from the weight pressing down on my shoulders. Maybe this time, I would choose myself—quietly, without asking anyone for permission.