Appluase

 "Oh Bangalore traffic…"

Debi asked the autorickshaw to keep the change and rushed towards the office campus main gate. She had exactly 7 minutes for a client presentation. The walkway to the meeting room usually took more than 10 minutes.She was almost panting for breath as she hurriedly logged in and opened the presentation at her desk for last-minute checks. The client had already arrived and was heading towards the meeting room. She knew—there would be no second chances today.

She entered the room and greeted everyone. She knew almost everyone—except one new face.Her boss introduced him as a solution architect in her domain.

Something within her tightened.Still, she began. Her ideas flowed like a well-told story—one point leading effortlessly into the next. Her examples were relatable, sometimes even carrying a gentle humor that softened complex ideas.Outwardly, she was composed.Inwardly, she was performing.There was also an openness in her to absorb the client’s unexpected last-minute changes. She adapted quickly. She always did. The presentation ended well.But something had already shifted.At the end of the meeting, the client introduced the new face—Saksham—as the leading person for the project, with whom Debi would work.For a moment, the room blurred.She smiled. Or at least, her lips did.Inside, something cracked.

She was furious. The kind of anger that doesn’t shout immediately—but burns, steady and humiliating. Her skin flushed, not just with rage, but with a deep sting she could not name.

Was all of it not enough?The late nights. The weekend calls. The quiet sacrifices no one ever acknowledged.And just like that—someone new. Someone visible.And everyone was so pleased.The applause she had imagined for herself echoed instead for someone else.She felt replaced.She left early that day, carrying a silence heavier than exhaustion.

That night, she called her closest friends from the office. Words poured out—frustration, disbelief, justification. Each sentence trying to prove something… not just to them, but to herself.

The next few days, she went to the office earlier than usual. If effort had built her identity, she would double it now.But Saksham was already becoming everyone’s favorite.He was easy. Effortlessly social. Jolly, straightforward. His presence filled spaces that Debi had quietly occupied for years without notice.

And worse—he was good.That truth disturbed her the most.Debi spoke less to him, carefully polite, deliberately distant. Twelve years in the industry had taught her diplomacy.But not how to deal with displacement.

Then came the email.A thread. A misunderstanding. Or maybe not.To Debi, it was clear—he had taken credit for her work.The argument escalated quickly. Words sharpened. Emails lengthened. CC lists expanded.It was no longer about the work.It was about being seen.Management intervened.

Debi sat staring at her screen, her vision blurred—not just with anger, but with something softer, more fragile.Saksham, on the other hand, remained calm. Composed.His calmness felt like an accusation.Soon, the office divided itself into quiet camps.Some stood with Debi—validating her, reinforcing her narrative.Some stood with Saksham—admiring his clarity and ease.And some simply watched—feeding on the tension.Her close circle advised her to file an HR complaint.A part of her wanted to fight.Another part was just… tired.

After several discussions with managers, Debi chose to step away from the project.Not because she agreed.But because she could no longer breathe within it.Yet, leaving didn’t bring relief.It lingered.Every interaction, every email, every suggestion from him—even when valid—felt like intrusion. Like correction. Like proof that she was no longer enough.She began to see everything through that lens.

Six months passed.The work she once loved began to feel heavy. Mechanical. Draining.Debi was fatigued—not from effort, but from resistance.She was no longer working on problems.She was fighting within herself.She felt stuck.Leaving the job meant uncertainty—especially in uncertain times.Staying meant continuing this silent erosion.So she stayed.

Avoiding him. Ignoring emails. Delaying responses. Replaying conversations in her mind.Planning. Justifying. Blaming.Slowly, almost invisibly, something changed.Debi—once a workaholic, once deeply invested—began to withdraw.Not loudly. Not dramatically.Just enough not to feel or care.And somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the politics, beneath the noise—Was a quieter truth she had not yet faced:She was jealous—of someone who was better than her, in the truest sense, in many aspects. And she simply could not accept it.That truth stung more than any office politics ever could.

She had always been deeply attached to her self-image. No matter how things were at work, she believed one thing with certainty—that she was a good person.But now, that image felt threatened.Amidst the quarrels and constant inner noise, she slowly realized something far more unsettling—she was losing herself.The person who stood for what was right…the one who was kind and helpful…the one who carried positivity and quiet confidence…that version of her was fading.And in its place stood someone she barely recognized—defensive, restless, constantly comparing.

It was not Saksham who was taking something away from her.It was her own inability to face this shadow within.And perhaps, for the first time, life was not asking her to prove herself to the world—but to be honest with herself.There was a silence in that realization.Uncomfortable. Raw. Honest.For the first time, she did not justify her anger.She did not blame him.She did not try to prove she was right.She simply sat with the truth.Yes, she was jealous.Yes, she felt threatened.Yes, her ego was hurt.And strangely, in accepting it… something within her softened.

The heaviness she had been carrying for months did not disappear—but it loosened its grip.Because the moment she stopped pretending to be who she thought she should be…she came a step closer to who she truly was.Not perfect.Not always kind.Not always right.But aware.

And perhaps, that awareness was the beginning of something far more real than the image she had been trying so hard to protect.