Id been working at the same firm for seven years, though the passage of time in this dream felt both brief and endless, as if each clock ticked backwards and forwards at once.
Id first arrived as an office assistant, and drifted up through the hazy corridors of the company to become the coordinator of our administrative team.
My dearest friend, Harriet, floated into my work-world two years later, drawn in on the peculiar tide of my own invitation.
I taught her the strange rituals of our processes, revealed the secret tunnels of our systems, handed her sheaves of contacts, even sweeping her missteps under invisible rugs so she wouldnt be swept out the door herself.
At lunch, we sat together under trees that sometimes grew through the floor.
On Fridays, we wandered the kinds of pubs that twist and shrink at the corners, laughing into the nights wonky echo.
I trusted her more deeply than any soul Ive metat least, thats how it seemed in this dream.
Six months agoa day of thick fog and odd silencesa managerial role shimmered into being, as though conjured.
My boss appeared, face shifting like a mask, and told me I was one of the top contenders.
Suddenly, I was arriving before dawn, leaving after dusk, collecting new tasks with arms that stretched far too long.
All the while, Harriet would catch my eye and whisper, That jobs yours, youve earned it. I told her everything: my plans, my hopeful little strategies, as if she could keep them safe in the folds of her coat.
But then, on the morning of the interview, Harriets form flickered in the waiting rooma shadow sitting across from my own.
Shed told me nothing, slipped in silent as a dream within the dream.
I only realised when I saw her smoothing her skirt in front of the managers door.
She glanced up and said simply, I decided to give it a go. I tried to ignore the sudden sick shape twisting in my stomach, tried to believe there was no harm in hope.
But a week later, the news unfurled like a silent scream: Harriet had been chosen as manager.
I stared at my computer, the screen melting, unable to react as the news slithered across the office.
Then, peculiar things began happeningprocesses Id created vanished in odd, swirling patterns, replaced by rules that didnt seem to fit.
Harriet removed me from projects Id once dreamt into being, buried me under reports that ran on for miles.
My colleague Tom, with a face that changed every time I looked at him, told me shed accused me of lacking leadership skills, that many of her cleverest ideasechoes of words Id whispered to herwere now dressed as her own.
One day, in a café where the chairs seemed to float above the floor, I asked her straight out, Why did you say all that about me? She sipped her tea, which turned to ink, and replied, Its business, not friendship.
I had to make sure I kept the job. I reminded her of all Id done for herthe training, the secrets, the protection.
She shrugged, her shoulders multiplying by two and then three, and said, That was your choice.
I never asked.
Since then, my days hum with tension, like an endless, discordant song.
Harriet is cold and formalher words sharp, her corrections public.
She gives me tasks that loop endlessly, nonsensical and unfixable.
I come home each night in tears, the house stretching and breathing around me, filled with anxiety, wanting nothing more than escape.
And yet a bitter seed keeps me rootedIm angry at the thought of walking away without a word.
Now I stand at the dreams crossroads: Do I keep swallowing the silence just to hold onto a job, or should I step out into the uncanny unknown, starting all over again?
If this were your dream, would you stay, or finally wake and walk away?
