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The Wheelchair Diaries - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-09-02 08:42:08 +0000 UTCWhen I wake up, it's early enough that the world still looks hesitant. The sky over London is pale and washed-out, like someone forgot to finish painting it. My apartment feels quiet, almost cautious, as if it knows exactly what I'm about to do.
I don't move yet. I lie there, feeling the gentle weight of the duvet covering me, aware of how still my legs are beneath it. They feel heavy, like soft, warm sandbags I dragged to bed with me last night.
I stare at the ceiling and let the fantasy in slowly, like it's something delicate that might shatter if I push too hard.
This is how I want to wake up every day. Legs unresponsive. Body quiet. Mind calm because it's finally caught up with itself.
My hands slip beneath the covers, finding my thighs and pressing gently. I imagine feeling nothing. I imagine that I'm touching someone else's legs, limbs belonging to a girl who once danced, once ran for buses, once stood for hours at concerts, before it all went silent. Before she lost everything she took for granted.
I move one leg with my hands, carefully pulling it to the side, limp and floppy, exactly how I've practiced. I savor the heaviness. The emptiness. No help, no cheating, no muscles allowed.
I want to be paralysed.
I want my legs to give up and never move again.
I want my body to finally match the way I've always felt inside: quiet, numb and still.
It feels shameful to think it. It feels even more shameful to admit I've never wanted anything else quite so much.
But today is the day I stop pretending it's temporary.
Today, this becomes real.
In the bathroom, the shower chair waits for me like a quiet accomplice. I transfer onto it, dragging myself carefully so that my feet dangle a little before settling onto the footplate. It's an awkward ballet of shifting and adjusting, but I've practiced it enough that it feels natural.
The water hits my skin, and I let it run down my body. I focus on the point where sensation would stop, right at my waist, at the imagined line of paralysis. Below that, everything is numb. Everything is quiet. I don't feel the warmth or pressure, just distant contact. I soap myself, imagining again that these legs don't belong to me, that my hips can't feel the cold seat beneath me.
As the steam rises, it hits me all at once that this is forever.
This isn't playing pretend anymore.
It's a new life choice, no walking, no standing, no going back.
And it feels exactly like relief.
After the shower, I wheel back to the bed wrapped in a towel. I feel exposed but also free, the cool air tingling on skin that I'm trying desperately not to feel below my waist. I reach into the bedside drawer and pull out a fresh diaper.
I stare at it for a moment. The crinkle of the plastic, the thick padding. I chose it carefully. Medical-looking, functional, not pretty. But the moment I hold it, my heart starts racing again.
I lie back, raise my hips with my arms only, no cheating, and slide the diaper under myself, pulling it into place. My hands fumble with the tapes for just a second before sealing them tightly. I flatten the padding gently, pressing down to make sure it's snug.
I wish I needed it.
I wish I couldn't trust my body.
I wish I was incontinent, not just wearing this as a prop, but because there was no other choice. I want the quiet humiliation of losing control because that's what it would mean to be truly paralysed.
Until I get catheters, this is as close as I'll get. It feels wrong, maybe. But it also feels perfect.
I dress entirely in bed now. Standing would break the spell, and that's not something I'm willing to risk. I pull on my loose, oversized jeans inch by inch, shifting my weight from side to side until the waistband finally settles around me. The denim is baggy enough to hide everything, but as I button them I pause, a small panic creeping up my throat.
Can anyone see? Is the diaper obvious? Do my hips look different? Are my shoes clean enough to show they haven't touched the ground for a long time?
I sit up slowly, carefully positioning my legs so they don't move too much. Then comes a soft red cardigan that slips on easy, sleeves rolled halfway up. The outfit feels comfortable and exactly the right kind of effortless. But still, I can't shake that tiny, anxious voice asking if it's noticeable.
When I transfer into the wheelchair, it feels final. I don't hesitate. My body slides into place like it's been waiting for this moment forever. I adjust my feet onto the footplate, letting my ankles rest loosely, deliberately floppy, exactly how I imagine paralysis would look.
I want these legs to stay still all day. I want them to flop and shift on their own, completely beyond my control. I want to constantly have to move them back into position, using only my hands.
I wheel myself carefully over to the full-length mirror beside the door. My reflection surprises me. I don't look like someone pretending; I look like someone who's survived something difficult.
On impulse, I wheel over to the mirror by the door, slowly, and angle myself just right. It's a full-length one, plain frame, cheap glass. But somehow the reflection feels heavier today. I pause there for a second. My hands are still resting lightly on the push rims. My feet are flat on the footplate, ankles relaxed, the denim pooling a little around the knees.
The cardigan drapes loosely over my lap. No one would know what's underneath unless they were looking for it. But I know. I feel it, the soft bulk of the diaper pressed between my legs, the quiet crinkle when I shift slightly. And I don't shift much. I keep still.
I look at my face in the mirror, searching for something in my own eyes. I don't look fake. Or lost. I look... like someone who made a decision and stuck to it. There's still a flicker of nerves behind the expression, but it's there: the stillness, the new version of me I've been working toward.
I reach for my phone from the side pocket of my jeans and open the camera app.
The image on the screen feels surreal. Me, in the chair, legs quiet, posture confident, expression unreadable. It's not like the pictures on my old Instagram, where I was always standing, always fake smiling, always doing things I didn't care about. This is quieter. Stranger. More honest.
I raise the phone and take a selfie.
One shot. Front-facing. No filter. No makeup, just tinted balm and a quiet kind of pride. My hand's a little shaky, but I keep it in frame. Me in the chair. Me as I am now.
I look at it for a while. Zoom in, out. No one would know I'm not paralysed. No one would question it. I look like I belong in this body. Like this is where I was always meant to land.
I don't post it, not yet.
But I start something new. A fresh Instagram account. Private, locked down. Just for me, for now.
No tags. No introduction. Just the photo, one square of evidence that today, I chose to be seen like this.
I wheel myself to the door and pause again at the mirror. My pulse quickens as I check one last time, adjusting the sleeves, pulling the cardigan down slightly over the waistline of my jeans.
It's strange how proud and ashamed I feel at the same time.
But mostly proud.
Mostly relieved.
Before I leave, I send my mom a quick text:
"First day today, wish me luck."
She responds almost instantly with hearts and smiley faces. She has no idea who I really am now. She thinks I moved to London for a new job and a fresh start, not because I needed distance to become myself. She doesn't know her daughter dreams every night of legs that never move and a body that never listens.
Maybe this new Instagram will be different. Maybe I'll find people who understand. Maybe someday it won't feel lonely.
The apartment hallway is empty, quiet. I wheel myself gently toward the lift, breathing slow and careful. When the doors open, I wheel inside and turn around smoothly, facing forward, facing the day.
I press the button for the ground floor. I close my eyes for a second.
When they open again, I know this is forever.
This isn't playing pretend.
This is me.
This is the choice I've made.
The air smells like yesterday's rain and the kind of summer morning that hasn't decided if it wants to be warm or grey. The sky looks indifferent. My hands are already a little cold on the push rims, even though I wiped them clean before I left. There's a thin film of anxiety on everything.
This is the first time I'm doing this.
Not just going to work. But this. Out in the world, in the chair, in public transport. No test runs. No gentle friend nearby just in case. Just me, in this body I've been curating like a secret, pushing through London as if I've belonged this whole time.
I roll down the pavement slower than I meant to. It's uneven in ways I didn't fully register before. I start cataloguing every tilt and dip like it's personal. I catch my front caster on a stray bit of gravel and nearly tip, just for a second, then right myself with a breath that sounds a little too loud in my ears.
No one stops. No one rushes in. And weirdly, I'm grateful for that.
I pass a mum with a pram and feel something flicker, not quite jealousy, but a strange kinship. Wheels in the world. Occupying space. We both slow down to let each other through a narrow path near the bins, and she smiles at me, quick and neutral, like she doesn't want to embarrass either of us. I return it. Barely.
The station isn't far. Seven minutes maybe. Ten now, with the careful pushing. I have to stop twice to reposition my backpack on the backrest, it's pulling awkwardly, throwing off the balance. I make a mental note to adjust the straps later. Maybe find a flatter bag. Something more... "cool disabled woman" and less "over-prepared schoolchild."
When I get to the station, my hands are already a little raw. And then it hits me: I don't know exactly where the lift is. I've only ever used the stairs here.
I sit at the entrance for a beat too long, pretending to scroll my phone while my chest tightens. I feel like an intruder. A liar. Like someone's going to tap my shoulder and say, You shouldn't be here.
But no one does.
Instead, a man in a bright yellow jacket looks up from his post and gestures to a side gate. "You need the lift, yeah?"
I nod. "Yeah."
He unlocks it without a word and points to a corridor that smells like warm metal and disinfectant. I follow it, heart pounding, suddenly aware of how loud my wheels sound when it's just me, alone in a tunnel.
The lift is slow. It rattles as it moves, and I try not to picture it breaking down with me inside, stuck. I stare at the emergency button and tell myself: You chose this. You get to want this. You are not a fraud just because your legs still move when no one's looking.
The platform is busier than I expected. I roll out and feel dozens of eyes slide across me. Some linger. Some don't. It's like they're all doing the math, chair, age, makeup, clothes, hair, trying to work out which box I fit into.
I focus on the ground. Find the tactile paving. I roll to the designated blue wheelchair space, breathing shallowly like I'm about to take a test.
The train arrives in a rush of warm air and brake screech. The doors open, and I freeze for half a second before pushing forward, hands tight, motion steady, like I practiced in my living room. I roll in and swivel, lining up my wheels with the space as if I've done this forever.
Inside, it's quiet. A guy in a trench coat offers a barely-there nod. A teenage girl glances up, then looks away. I try to lean back casually, but every part of me is electric. I wonder if anyone can tell that I'm still sweating.
I check my brakes even though I don't really need to. Just something to do. I glance at the map above the doors, counting the stops. Seven until my station. Seven chances to fuck this up.
I let my legs rest heavy on the footplate, ankles angled slightly inward like I saw in a rehab video once. I adjust the cushion beneath me with a subtle shift of my waist, suddenly aware of the diaper wrapped around my body, soft and dry, like a secret I'm barely keeping.
The fantasy presses in: What if this was real? What if my bladder didn't work, and I couldn't feel it until it was too late? What if the train hit a bump and I pissed myself right here, not even knowing it?
A thrill runs down my spine. Then guilt, just as fast.
I look up and catch someone watching me. A middle-aged woman, kind eyes, maybe a teacher. She smiles softly. I hold her gaze for a second too long. I don't know what she sees.
Disabled girl going to work?
Brave?
Sad?
Liar?
The train lurches and I brace automatically. My hand flies to the push rim, but I make it look like nothing. Like I'm used to it. Inside, my heart is thrashing.
The woman looks away.
I stay perfectly still.
When the station comes, I wait for the train to still, for the doors to open. I roll out onto the platform like it's a runway. Focused, practiced and back straight. I avoid every crack. I make the turn. I follow the signs for the lift.
The way up feels longer than the way down.
And when I roll out onto the street, early morning London buzzing around me, taxis honking, people on phones, someone shouting about croissants. I feel it settle deep in my chest:
I did it.
I actually did it.
The gallery building rises out of the pavement like it knows it's important. Glass and brushed steel, all clean lines and tasteful signage, with an automatic door that opens before I even reach it, as if it's been waiting for me.
My stomach is in knots, like a steady pressure behind my ribs. I've spent so long imagining this moment, wheeling into a place where no one knew the before version of me, that now it feels almost underwhelming. Almost.
But not really.
Because everything matters right now. The way I push the wheels. Smooth, not rushed. The way my jeans sit over the cushion, hiding the diaper underneath. The way I tilt my head up slightly when I pass the huge front window, pretending I'm not watching my reflection the entire time.
Inside, it's quieter than expected. The floor's that polished concrete that makes everyone sound like they're walking with purpose. A woman in heels clacks past me, talking into her AirPods. Somewhere deeper in the building, someone laughs too loud.
The reception desk is curved like a wave, and the girl behind it has perfect eyeliner and a chunky sweater that somehow looks professional. She glances up, and I catch that flicker, the two-second processing delay. Wheelchair. Young. Okay.
She recovers quickly. "Hi there! You must be Jessica?"
I nod, my voice coming out steadier than I expect. "That's me. First day."
"Welcome." She's already standing. "Liv's just upstairs, second floor. You can take the lift right over there."
The way she says lift is casual, automatic. Not patronizing. It's so normal that it throws me off a little. Like she's just saying it because it's the way people get upstairs, and not because I need it.
I smile, thank her, and push toward the elevator.
In the lift, I look at myself in the mirrored panel. Just a quick check. Hair: fine. Eyes: tired. Shoulders: tense. Legs: perfect. Still. Bent neatly at the knees, thighs pressed flat against the cushion. The footplate carries their weight like it's been doing it for years. I imagine them thinner, softer. I imagine the muscle wasted away, the skin a little looser. I imagine that familiar blankness, no signal, no warmth. Just quiet.
Someday, I think. For now, I pretend.
The second floor opens into sunlight and noise. It's open-plan, glass desks, track lighting, framed posters of past exhibitions. There's a low buzz of conversation, printer noises, someone clicking too hard on a mouse. A man in a turtleneck walks past carrying a rolled-up blueprint and two oat lattes. Everyone's dressed like they might go to a party straight from work. Cool but vaguely exhausted.
I pause at the edge of the room.
I don't know where to go. There are no signs. No arrows. Just the subtle choreography of people who already know where everything is. I hover and then I spot her.
Liv.
Waving at me from across the room like I'm an old friend. Bright jumper, cropped jeans, a tiny gold hoop in her nose. She walks over, not too fast, not too loud. Just enough to make me feel like I matter.
"Jessica! You made it. First days are brutal but it gets better."
I nod, smile. Try to keep my shoulders loose.
"You look great," she says, already turning to guide me deeper into the space. "Come on, your desk's this way. We set it up yesterday."
She leads me past a cluster of people hunched over spreadsheets. No one stares. Or maybe they do, but I'm too focused on keeping my hands steady, not clipping the edge of a desk or bumping a bin. I keep my elbows tucked, movements clean. Like I know what I'm doing.
"This is you," Liv says, stopping beside a desk near the back, next to a glass divider covered in sticky notes and doodles.
The desk is perfect. Clear, functional. No drawers underneath, just space. A laptop sits waiting. There's even a little folded notecard that says "Welcome!" with a very questionable drawing of a cat on it.
"She's not the best at art," someone says from the other side of the partition.
A head pops around, platinum blonde bob, smudgy eyeliner, heavy silver rings. "Hi. I'm Steph. I'm annoying and I'm the assistant curator."
"Jessica," I say. "Finance. Also annoying, depending on who you ask."
Steph grins. "Perfect match."
Liv laughs. "She's being modest. Steph's a legend."
I smile, and it feels real.
For a moment, everything quiets. No pounding heart. No second-guessing. Just me, in this space, being part of something. Like the whole lie, the whole performance, is working.
"Do you want a coffee?" Liv asks. "There's a machine in the kitchen but honestly it's trash. There's a café downstairs though."
"I'm good for now," I say, unlocking the brakes and shifting slightly to adjust the cushion.
She nods. "Cool. I'll leave you to settle in. Just shout if you need anything."
They both vanish, and I exhale, long and slow.
I wheel forward, open the laptop, and stare at the login screen like it might ask for something deeper than a password. Like it might know.
I'm here.
I'm actually here.
And no one's questioned it. Not the receptionist. Not Liv. Not Steph. Not the guy who passed me by the kitchen. I don't know if I'm being seen as disabled. Or as me. Or as some convenient blend of both. But for now, it's working.
I fold my hands in my lap and glance around the room. My thighs sit quiet under denim, knees pressed together, ankles resting lightly on the footplate. Diaper beneath, still clean. Still dry. Still waiting.
I swallow. Look at the spreadsheet that's slowly loading. I can do this. I can be this. I've spent years watching from the outside. Now I'm in it.
And if anyone asks, which they haven't yet, I'll tell them:
Car accident. Eighteen. Back seat. No seatbelt. Spinal cord injury.
But no one asks.
Not yet.
Lunch creeps up quietly. I don't even realize it's time until I look up and the office has thinned out, conversations softening into that late-afternoon hush. I've barely touched the onboarding doc on my screen, mostly just clicked around, trying not to sweat through my shirt or shift in my seat too obviously.
I've been pretending I'm not hungry, but my stomach's already given up pretending.
Liv appears at my desk like a breeze. "You coming to lunch? We usually sit by the big window. Nothing glamorous, but the sun hits right."
I blink. "Uh... yeah. Definitely."
Steph is already waving from the other side of the room. She's perched on the edge of a beat-up teal chair, holding a sandwich in one hand and a yogurt in the other. It's the kind of casual mess I envy, she doesn't seem like someone who second-guesses herself.
I roll over, trying not to panic about whether I look natural doing it. My hands are a little clammy on the push rims, but I don't want to wipe them. I don't want to look new at this. Even though I am.
The window nook isn't really a kitchen or a lounge. It's just a patch of concrete floor with a few chairs, a leaning plant, and a table that's been Sharpie'd to death. But the light is good. The way it falls over Liv's shoulder makes her look like she belongs in some indie film about twenty-somethings in creative jobs who always wear perfect trousers.
"Do you want some?" she asks, nodding at her little Tupperware of couscous. "It's mediocre but plentiful."
I shake my head. "I'm good. I'll get something after."
"You sure? I've got hummus. Emergency hummus."
"I'll survive."
Steph grins. "This is the payroll resilience they don't tell you about."
We settle into a rhythm, soft conversation, in-jokes I don't fully understand yet, bits of office gossip about someone called Tilda who got two exhibitions pulled because she allegedly confused Rwanda with Ghana in a caption. I nod and smile and take it all in like sunlight. Like I've been starving for this.
Steph wipes her hands on a napkin and leans back. "So, Jessica. Spain to London. What's the story?"
There it is.
I knew it would come eventually, and I've rehearsed this part. Not in the mirror or anything. Just in my head. Over and over. On long bus rides, while brushing my teeth, in that fuzzy moment before sleep. Like a scene I've never performed but might get called up for at any moment.
Car accident. Eighteen. Back seat. No seatbelt. Spinal cord injury. T10.
Each word tested, trimmed, polished until it rolls off like memory. Like truth.
But first, the prelude. Something to anchor it.
"I needed a change," I say. "I'd been in Valencia since uni, working numbers for this private firm. It was... fine. Predictable."
"Predictable is code for soul-crushing," Liv says, stabbing a tomato.
I laugh. "Exactly. Then my relationship ended and it felt like the right time. New country, new everything."
Steph nods, chewing. "Classic heartbreak reset."
"Pretty much. He was... sweet. But we were growing in opposite directions. Or maybe I was growing and he was just standing still."
Liv offers a soft, knowing smile. "I've been there."
"And honestly," I add, letting the next line fall out without too much performance, "London always felt like this faraway version of the person I wanted to be."
As soon as I say it, I feel exposed, like I've admitted something too big. But they nod like it makes sense.
"You're making it look easy," Steph says.
My chest flutters a little. I want to believe her. I want to live in that version of the story.
They don't ask anything about the wheelchair, not yet. It's like they're waiting for me to bring it up, which I kind of love. I can almost feel the questions sitting behind their eyes. Curious, polite, contained.
I've been waiting too. Not for them to ask, exactly, but for the opportunity to drop the script I've written and rewritten in my head a thousand times. At night, in the shower, lying in bed in the dark, whispering it to myself like an actor before a scene.
So I offer it before they have to ask. Before the wondering gets too loud.
"I'm okay with questions," I say, picking at the edge of the napkin in my lap. "About the wheelchair. If you were wondering."
Steph raises a brow, cautious but curious. "Are you sure?"
I nod. "Yeah. It's fine."
She doesn't hesitate. "What happened?"
"Car accident," I say, letting it out slowly. "I was eighteen. Back seat. No seatbelt. We hit the median. Messed up my spine. Now I am paralysed from my waist down."
I glance up. Their faces are open, soft. Listening. Not pitying, which is good. I don't think I could stomach pity right now.
Liv nods, her voice quiet. "That's a lot."
"It was," I say. "Still is, sometimes."
I feel the words settle in the air between us like dust. I let them sit there. I don't rush to make it easier for anyone.
"It's just part of the story," I add. "Not the whole thing."
Steph lifts her sandwich again. "Still. Thanks for sharing it."
And just like that, it's done. Out in the open. The fiction layered over with enough emotion to feel real, even to me.
"We're taking you out this week," Steph says, smiling again. "You've officially crossed into work-friend territory."
Liv points her fork at me. "Prepare to be grilled on your music taste, your worst date, and what you think about dogs in prams."
"Noted," I say. "I'll bring prepared statements."
The conference room is small, too warm, and full of that kind of tense politeness people slip into when their managers are present. Everyone sits close around the table, and it's impossible not to feel a bit claustrophobic. Steph's next to me, doodling something elaborate on the corner of her agenda, while Liv nods intently at every word from the head of marketing.
I keep my hands folded neatly in my lap, ankles resting carefully on the footplate. It's a posture I've practiced endlessly to seem controlled, casual and believable.
The meeting itself feels endless. Budgets, upcoming exhibitions, internal strategy. Words float by me, a stream I can barely focus on. My mind is too busy tracking other things: how my jeans are sitting, whether my thighs look convincingly thinner from lack of use, how still I'm holding my legs, the weight of the diaper beneath me.
And then, in the middle of a particularly tedious PowerPoint slide, I feel it:
That low, dull ache in my abdomen.
I have to pee.
It comes on gently, then grows sharper with each passing second. I try to breathe through it quietly, but it's impossible to ignore. I could wheel myself out, excuse myself quietly, find a bathroom, but I don't move. My heart picks up speed. My chest feels tight.
Because isn't this the whole point? Isn't this the exact moment I'd imagined and dreaded and hoped for, all at once? This chance to let go, to let my body fail me without control or consent, right here among strangers who don't suspect a thing?
My hands tighten just slightly. I look down at the printouts on the table, feigning interest, forcing my expression into something neutral. Calm. Unaware.
I glance briefly around the table. Liv's still nodding thoughtfully. Steph is biting the end of her pen, eyes glazing over. Nobody's looking at me. Nobody notices anything.
Slowly, carefully, I let the tension out of my muscles. I relax, almost experimentally, testing the waters, literally. I feel the first warm trickle as it leaves me, a subtle rush of wetness spreading into the padding between my legs.
I freeze instinctively, heart racing, throat tight. Panic sets in. What if it leaks? What if it's noticeable? What if they can smell it? But it doesn't stop. Instead, the warmth builds quietly, pooling and soaking through the thick material of the diaper. It feels heavy.
I try not to move, not even an inch, keeping my expression still. My breath feels louder than the meeting. Heat rises in my face, not from shame alone, but something else tangled in there, too: relief, excitement, surrender. The raw thrill of having crossed this line, of letting my body betray me exactly the way I'd imagined a thousand times before.
But guilt comes fast behind it. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't feel proud, even briefly, of something people suffer from every day. People who didn't choose this. People who didn't sit around daydreaming about losing control like it's something beautiful.
It's messy. It's humiliating. It's complicated and strange, and for one brief, terrifying moment, it's perfect.
And I have to sit here, quietly, with the knowledge that I've just deliberately let go in a diaper, pretending it's just another Monday meeting.
Eventually, the warmth settles, cooling slowly. The meeting drones on. I keep breathing. I keep my posture still. I smile faintly when Liv leans over to whisper something about the endlessness of budget meetings.
When the meeting finally wraps, I wait patiently for people to file out. I don't rush. I wheel myself out of the conference room slowly, carefully, like nothing happened. Like I didn't just quietly surrender to a fantasy in the middle of a crowded room.
Steph smiles as we exit, says something casual about it being the longest hour of her life, and I smile back. But my heart is pounding. I glance down quickly at my jeans, terrified that there might be a visible spot, but there's nothing.
I make my way slowly down the hall toward the bathroom, trying to appear indifferent. Inside, I shut the door and lock it carefully.
In the silence, reality rushes back. I sit there for a moment, my heartbeat echoing loudly in my ears. The diaper is soaked beneath me, a quiet reminder of exactly how far I'm willing to go to live this life. I stare at myself in the mirror. I see guilt and shame and excitement tangled together on my face.
Slowly, carefully, I undo the button of my jeans, pulling them down just enough to access the diaper. It's swollen, heavy, embarrassingly full. My cheeks flush hot as I peel it away, clean myself carefully with wipes, and slip into a fresh one from my backpack.
The clean padding feels both comforting and strangely clinical against my skin, a new chance to keep playing this role I've chosen. I carefully dispose of the used diaper deep in the bin, hiding the evidence beneath paper towels and shame.
When I pull my jeans back up, everything feels normal again, at least from the outside. The mirror shows the same girl who wheeled in here earlier. But inside, I'm different now. I've crossed another line.
I've tasted a loss of control that I'm not sure I deserve.
Yet somehow, the shame fades quickly. And when I roll back out into the corridor, I smile at Steph as she passes, making a joke about another meeting scheduled for tomorrow.
Like nothing happened.
