I don’t even know why I’m writing this, probably just need to get it out before I explode or something. The thing is, I’m… well, I’m a pretty big deal. Or at least, I’m supposed to be. Everyone around me thinks I'm this powerhouse, you know, the one who built half this damn company. And I did! I really did work my ass off for decades to get here, to have the corner office, the fancy car, the whole shebang. But then tonight, it’s like, 1 AM, everyone’s gone except the cleaning crew and me, and I’m sitting there, hunched over my desk, eating cold instant noodles straight out of the Styrofoam cup because I don’t want anyone to see me. Can you believe that? Fucking instant noodles. Not even heated up, just… cold. Like a goddamn animal. It’s been happening for months now. I keep a stash in the bottom drawer, under a stack of old reports nobody ever looks at. Top Ramen, Maruchan, whatever’s on sale at the grocery store. Just dump in some lukewarm tap water from the cooler down the hall, let it sit for a bit, then slurp it down. It’s disgusting, honestly. But it’s fast, it’s cheap, and no one has to know that the big shot, the one who talks about market strategies and billion-dollar deals, is secretly chowing down on twenty-nine cent ramen because she’s too exhausted to go home and make anything else and god forbid anyone sees me getting a sad little sandwich from the bodega at this hour. What would that say about me? That I’m not as put-together as they think? That I’m struggling? That I’m just… tired? And I AM tired. So fucking tired. I look at the younger people, all fired up, climbing the ladder, and I think, “God, was I ever like that?” I used to be, I know I was. But now… now I just want to sit here in the dark, eat my stupid cold noodles, and wonder what the hell I did with my life. All this success, all this pressure, and for what? So I can eat instant ramen like a college kid trying to save pennies? I’m supposed to be setting an example, leaving a legacy, not hiding my shame in a desk drawer. It’s just… pathetic, isn’t it? I just turned 60, for chrissakes. Sixty. And I’m still doing this. What a joke.