Nine Boxes, One Stamp

Half a packet of instant noodles, a bottle of ketchup, and a lingering regret were all that were left in the cupboard.

He stared down at his noodles like it was a Michelin-starred tasting menu.

“Champions' breakfast,” he muttered, and he was filling a kettle with boiling water — that very kettle that had seemed set to die since last winter.

The noodles emerged limp, wet, and sulkily indignant — his mirror self, just that.

He slurped a strand and thought: If I do not get that job next week, I’ll be eating from the packet. Plastic and all. Maybe it has fiber.

He dug through his wallet: two coins, a receipt for unpaid rent, and a punch card from a coffee shop that was shut down for half a year.

He rubbed his thumb over the old stamp. Ten more and I get a free coffee. Ten more years and maybe I get a job.

The message had made mention of it being his “final round interview.”

Authoritarian-sounding. Boss.

But he knew better.

Last rounds weren't last — just polite euphemism for: We're giving you a spin to compare you to that guy/gal we really like.

He was a yardstick professional now. A ruler human.

He needs to upload it to LinkedIn: Making the Actual Candidate Presentable — He's an Expert.

He wore his suit.

The knees still had ghost-creases from previous interviews.

It was spotted with something unidentified — blood or coffee. He did not care.

If they had wanted fashion week, they would've brought out a model. They're not hiring me either.

Nevertheless, he practiced his smile before the mirror.

Not too wide — that seemed desperate.

Not very flat — that was depressed.

The best of both worlds: Employ me, I’ll dance for scraps of bread that I’ll do just fine without you.

A smile so carefully crafted, it should've had a patent number.

He checked the clock.

Forty minutes before the interview.

Thirty-five minutes before he'd find out if he'd be skipping dinner.

His stomach rumbled in protest.

For future reference, he told himself. First paycheck to groceries, provided I get a job. Second, to therapy.

Bus was late, of course.

He stood on the corner, his résumé folder gripped like a personal flotation device.

The covers had been worn to fuzz. The inside paper had yellowed with over-handling. He joked to himself that it had greater mileage than his shoes.

He counted money on the bus: one for fare, one for survival.

A coin toss, essentially — heads, he lands the job; tails, he starves.

Either way, at least the suspense would be over.

He got to the glass building with that sort of desperation-begotten punctuality.

The lobby smelled of money — shiny marble, newly cut flowers, and perfume that belonged to those who didn't take buses.

He approached the receptionist. He received the smile from her.

He saw that smile — that smile that meant: “We already know you're not going to be hired but do sit down and enjoy our complimentary humiliation.”

He sat in a chair that was too soft for his bones and clutched his résumé like a relic.

His reflection in the gleaming wall stared back: suit too well-finished, shoes too unimpressive, eyes too tired.

He whispered to the glass, “Don’t mind me.”

His own ghost nodded again.

He rocked back and forth in the chair — too soft, too classy, too… clean.

The kind of furniture that didn’t just sink under your weight — it whispered about you afterward.

He sat up straighter.

Slouching made you look defeated. Too straight made you look rigid.

The sweet spot — approachable but competent — was apparently a posture that only existed in stock photos of white men holding coffee cups.

His résumé folder lay across his lap, creased like a prayer book.

The cover had gone so soft from being rifled and clutched that it had started folding in on itself, like even it was tired of being here.

And, of course, the mind started.

The brittle part.

The highlight reel.

There was that one interview — a hip startup with adjustable mood lighting and kombucha on tap — where they’d asked his greatest weakness and he’d said,

“Honestly? Being here again.”

They laughed. He hadn’t meant it as a joke.

Then the one where he smiled so hard, for so long, that his jaw spasmed mid-sentence.

He’d tried to play it off like he was just very excited about spreadsheets.

And then there was the classic:

“We’ll definitely keep you in mind.”

Which he assumed meant his name was printed out and tacked to a dartboard somewhere in HR, labeled “Control Group.”

He once got a rejection email that read:

“We had many qualified applicants, and unfortunately…”

He remembered thinking, unfortunately? For who? Because I’m the one eating ketchup noodles for lunch.

There’d been one interview where a panelist yawned — openly.

Another glanced at their phone the entire time.

The third asked him why he stood out.

He almost said,

“Mostly the depression. And my ability to smile while dying inside.”

But he played it safe. Said “adaptability” or something equally hollow.

Still got rejected.

He imagined them reading his résumé later, saying:

“Wow, he really does adapt. Look — he even adapted to failure.”

He sighed and tried not to sink too deep into the chair.

That’s when he saw him.

Across the lobby.

Charcoal suit, crisp. Minimalist briefcase. Hair that probably had its own stylist.

The kind of man who didn’t walk — he emerged.

When his name was called, he stood like a champagne bottle opening itself.

No nerves. No blink. Just carbonated confidence.

Definitely the type who verbed “network.”

Probably had a jawline that could cut taxes.

And a LinkedIn summary written in third person.

(“Chad believes in results-driven synergy…")

He even brought a tablet.

Held it like he’d invented it.

Swiped through emails like he was double-checking terms on a job he’d already accepted.

Our protagonist didn’t look. Couldn’t.

Their eyes met anyway.

The man smiled — not kindly, but in recognition.

The nod followed. That small, polite flicker that said:

Thanks for showing up to make me look better.

He looked away instantly, face-burning with an old, stupid humiliation that never seemed to expire.

He knew that type.

Clean. Confident. Molecularly corporate.

Probably had “leadership potential” and a “childhood trauma that became a strength.”

He glanced down at himself:

Suit: creased.

Tie: vaguely stained.

Shoes: dull, tired, wrong.

Soul: SEEKING NEW POSITION

Perfect, he thought. I’m not even a finalist. I’m the decoy. The baseline. The placebo.

A control subject in a lab experiment titled:

Would you hire someone who’s clearly been awake since the financial crisis?

“Mr. Rajan?”

The receptionist smiled when she said it — the kind of smile that, in any other setting, would have preceded a dentist saying, “This won’t hurt much.”

He stood. His knees cracked like bubble wrap.

The interview room opened with a hopeful hiss — as if even the air inside believed it had potential.

It was bright in there. Antiseptic. The chairs were identical.

The table was a heavy slab of wood that practically yelled, We're stable, you're not.

Three interviewers sat behind it. Each one looked like a variation on a LinkedIn avatar:

One was wide-eyed — all teeth and bullet points.

One was blank — possibly asleep, possibly shut down between questions.

And one had that look. That disapproving aunt at a wedding expression — the classic why are you like this?

He deployed his perfect smile.

Patented. Calibrated. Never too eager. Never too flat.

Just the right mix of “I'm honored to be here” with a dash of “but I still have dignity.”

“Thanks for coming in,” said Teeth. “We really appreciate your time.”

He nodded. You’ve taken enough of it, he thought. Might as well take the rest.

“Alright then,” said Teeth, flipping a page, “why don’t you start by telling us a little bit about yourself?”

It hit him like a cold spoon.

Every interview began this way.

As if this time — this time — his personality would finally break through.

Like they hadn’t already skimmed his résumé on the train over.

“Well,” he began. “I have a communications background, with a focus in content strategy and branding. I’ve led campaigns across various sectors, managed cross-functional teams, and—”

He stopped.

They were nodding. Automatically. Mechanically.

Like bobbleheads on a shelf.

He blinked.

To hell with it.

“In fact,” he said, “may I offer you the director’s cut?”

Teeth blinked. Neutral looked up. Aunt didn’t move.

“Sure,” said Neutral, hesitating.

“I’m a communications major,” he repeated. “With a minor in jobs I never get. I’m a master of being shortlisted but never selected. You could say I’m a finalist enthusiast.”

Silence. Not discomfort. Just... processing.

“I’ve run several projects,” he went on. “Mostly involving stress management while unemployed. I’m passionate about not dying alone in a studio flat that smells like boiled ketchup.”

Aunt shifted slightly. He continued.

“My core strengths include showing up on time, faking confidence, and writing cover letters that scream ‘Please hire me, I promise I won’t cry in the bathroom on Day One.’”

Teeth made a noise. A cough? A suppressed laugh? Hard to tell.

Neutral cleared their throat. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Still here,” he replied instantly. “Warming the finalist chair. Clapping for whoever you actually want to hire.”

They blinked. Again.

He smiled wider.

Aunt spoke up, voice clipped. “And why should we hire you?”

“Because I’m cheaper than therapy,” he said, “and I come with my own tragic backstory. And unlike therapy, I won’t make you talk about your mother.”

Teeth’s lips twitched. Neutral looked down. Aunt scribbled something with vigor.

He kept going, voice looser now. The tension had cracked — not shattered, just enough to let in the air.

“I’m great under pressure — mostly because I live under it.

Excellent at conflict resolution, especially with myself.

And I’m a fast learner, except when it comes to learning that I’m not getting the job.”

Aunt interrupted. “Do you… actually want this position?”

He blinked.

The only real question they’d asked so far.

Did he want it?

He saw it in his mind: the cubicles, the deadlines, the meetings about synergy and brand alignment and calendar sync.

But also: food. Rent. Sleep. A little bit of silence.

“I want the job,” he said, slowly. “I just don’t want to pretend to get it.”

They stared at him. For a moment, the room felt very quiet. Not cold. Just… still.

He adjusted his tie — askew now, stained and unbothered — and nodded once.

“Well,” he said, standing. “Don’t mind me.”

And before they could stop him — with coffee, or pity, or a final humiliating question — he walked out.

The lobby was just as he’d left it.

Too white. Too smooth. Too still.

A business aspiration spa.

He left the interview room and stepped into its bright stillness, as though emerging from surgery.

The receptionist looked up and smiled at him — the same smile she’d saved for him before.

A professional, expressionless smile that meant nothing.

He nodded back, briefly.

There was no victory. No outrage.

Only the silence that lingers after a storm that never materialized.

He passed the fancy ferns.

Past the bubbling water feature.

Past the rack of glossy magazines full of articles no one actually read but everyone pretended to care about.

He was halfway to the door when he saw him.

Still there.

Charcoal suit. iPad in hand. Same surgical smile.

The man hadn’t moved much — or maybe he’d grown roots in the leather chair.

He looked up from his screen as our protagonist walked by.

They locked eyes again.

And there it was — the nod.

Courteous. Minimal.

The thanks-for-playing.

The some-of-us-were-born-for-this nod.

He smiled again. Just for a moment.

And then turned away before it became real.

He pushed through the glass doors and out into the rain.

The light was too strong. The air too sharp.

Everything seemed too real for someone who had just recently failed.

He dipped his hand into his pocket, brought out a single coin — his last — and spun it across his knuckles.

Heads: you survive the day.

Tails: you survive it anyway.

He flipped it. Caught it.

Didn’t look.

Kept walking.

The wind caught at the corners of his resume folder.

The cover rustled once or twice — like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.

He gazed down at it.

Still intact. Still present. Still utterly useless.

Like him.

The rain had stopped, although only technically.

It still hung in the air — foggy, reluctant — like bad weather with a trust issue.

He moved without purpose, just to move.

Passed a dumpster filled with cups from world-conquering coffee brands.

Passed a man who looked like him, only with a better coat.

Passed a window where his reflection flickered — caught between real and gone.

Eventually, his feet took him there — to the old café.

The curtains stayed drawn.

Dust on the inside.

A CLOSED sign leaned sideways, as if even it had grown tired of facing the proper direction.

He retrieved his wallet and pulled out the loyalty card.

Nine blank boxes. One hopeful stamp.

The ink had faded — probably even back when the café was still alive.

He stared at it.

Ten more and I get a free coffee.

Ten more years and maybe I get a job.

He stood just outside the door for a moment.

It was still raining — that quiet mist that didn’t bother you right away, only later, after you'd already let it in.

He looked at the card again. Smiled, softly. Bitterly.

“At least I’m consistent,” he muttered.

“Always the best man. Never the groom.”