Day 11 : A Friend Named Sam

Monday

The sunlight came through the window this morning, brighter than usual. It lit up the dust on my bedside table and made the coffee in my mug feel warmer. For a moment, it tricked me into thinking the day might actually be good.

Isn’t it funny how light can change everything?

Funny how sunlight can do that, like it’s trying too hard to convince you everything’s fine.

Mom didn’t notice I skipped breakfast again. She was too busy planning her client calls and was already on her third call by the time I left the house, her coffee untouched on the counter. She stopped mid-sentence to give me a quick wave as I headed out, but that was it. Sometimes, I think her work is the only thing she really notices anymore.

The office was the same as it always is. Bland walls, fake plants, smelling like burnt coffee and the faintest hint of printer ink.

Linda from HR made a show with her usual passive-aggressive comments. This time, it was about my “lack of team spirit” because I didn’t sign up for the potluck.

“It wouldn’t kill you to contribute more to the potluck. Everyone’s putting in effort.” she said during the morning meeting, her voice sugar-coated with condescension.

I clenched my pen so hard I thought it might snap. “I’ll bring something,” I mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

“Oh, how generous of you,” she said, and the room chuckled politely.

I felt my cheeks burn, but I kept my head down. What was I supposed to say? That I barely had the energy to get through the day, let alone bake brownies for people I didn’t even like?

Who has time to worry about casseroles and cupcakes when there’s a ticking bomb in your head?

Sam stopped by my desk after lunch, the way he always does, carrying his usual smug grin. He leaned against my cubicle and said, “You look a little pale today. You okay?”

“I’m trying out a vampire look,” I said. “Pale skin, dark circles, eternal existential dread—it’s all the rage.”

He laughed. Sam always laughs at my jokes, even when they’re terrible. It’s nice. For a second, I almost told him everything. But what would I even say? “Hey, Sam, you know how people keep calling me ‘off’ lately? Surprise, it’s because my brain is trying to eat itself alive!” Yeah, no. That would go over well.

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I could’ve told him then. I could’ve said something about the six months the doctors gave me or how everything feels like it’s slipping away. But instead, I sighed.

“Long day,” I said.

He nodded like he got it, gave me a quick pat on the shoulder, before heading back to his desk.

Later, as I was packing up to leave, I found myself thinking about the first time I met Sam.

I met him about a year ago, just a month after I joined the office. I’d been feeling like a ghost, moving through the days without anyone really seeing me. The office garden had become my refuge—a patch of overgrown grass and a few sad-looking plants where I could sit and pretend I wasn’t suffocating.

One day, as I turned the corner to my usual bench, I saw him. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass, wearing a crumpled suit that looked like it had been rejected by every dry cleaner in town. His tie was loose, his hair a mess, and in his hand was a sandwich so ridiculous I had to stop and stare.

“Is that... peanut butter and chips?” I asked, half in disbelief.

He looked up, grinned, and took an exaggerated bite. “You forgot the pickles.”

I blinked. “Pickles?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said, patting the grass next to him. “Sit. You look like you could use some bad sandwich advice.”

I hesitated. “You’re not supposed to sit on the grass.”

He shrugged. “Rules are just polite suggestions.”

Against my better judgment, I sat.

“You’re new, right?” he asked, taking another bite of his culinary abomination.

“Yeah. Been here a month.”

He nodded like that explained everything. “Makes sense. You’ve got that ‘cubicle shock’ look. Don’t worry, it wears off in about two years.” (Funny how for me it wasn't even a year.)

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A small, reluctant laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I’m Sam,” he said, holding out a hand.

I shook it. “Ruhi”

“Nice to meet you, Ruhi."

From that day on, Sam became my strange, accidental friend. He’d pop by my desk at the most inconvenient times, always with a terrible joke or some half-baked wisdom. And somehow, it made everything feel a little less heavy.

The afternoon dragged on. I couldn’t focus on anything. My emails blurred together, and the constant buzz of the office was unbearable. Every little thing set me on edge—the way Carol chewed her gum too loudly, the click of Marcus’s pen, . It all felt suffocating.

When Linda walked by and made some snide comment about the deadline I’d already finished, I nearly snapped. Instead, I clenched my jaw and stared at my screen, willing myself not to cry.

Around six o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore and just wanted to reach home as soon as possible. I grabbed my bag and stepped outside feeling the cool air on my face.

By the time I got home, the house was dark except for the glow of Mom’s laptop in the kitchen. Dad perhaps was still busy working at office. He rarely comes early.

Mom gave me her usual distracted wave, and I retreated to my room without saying a word.

The coffee mug from this morning was still on my bedside table, untouched. The sunlight had faded, leaving the room in shadows. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing, trying to ignore the pounding in my head.

I sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, trying to figure out why today felt so... heavy. Maybe it was the sunlight. Or Sam’s laugh. Or the boy on the curb.

Or maybe it was me.