Project Glue

Mrs. Henderson,

I hope you are doing well.

I’m reaching out regarding the deliverable we agreed upon for Project Glue.

Our Board has requested that it be submitted one week earlier than planned, which means the new deadline is this Friday.

I apologize for the short notice and understand this may require adjustments on your end. Please let me know if you need any clarification or if there is anything I can do to support the accelerated timeline.

Kind regards,

Sarah Johnson

CFO | Heilding Investments

“Great!” Rebecca said ironically, clasping her hands behind her head, forgetting for a moment she was in the open‑plan office.

“What happened?” Peter asked from the desk beside her.

“Project Glue, that’s what happened! The deadline’s been moved—one week earlier! And I’ve got another one due this Friday!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Rebecca!”

“Shit!” she cursed, pushing back her chair and standing. Her eyes swept the open‑plan office, searching for her team. Mara was buried in an Excel file with endless sheets, Bob was feeding his analyses into the presentation, and Jack was double‑checking his numbers.

“So, how’s the team?” Rebecca spoke, and stood above them, not knowing how to start. Again. As almost every week.

“As discussed, I’m inputting my analysis in the presentation and I’ll start writing commentary after lunch break.” Bob said.

“I’m almost done with my file.” Jack added.

“What is it?” Mara, the most senior member of her team, suspected. “Bad news again?”

“It’s Heilding! They want the report this Friday…”

“Come on, seriously now?” Mara groaned.

“Unfortunately, yes…”

“But it’s Wednesday!” Mara grinned.

“What about the other one?” Jack wondered.

“Same! We have to share that report, too!”

Rebecca searched their eyes—surprise, shock, despair? Or all tangled together? It was the same haunted look they gave her almost every week when deadlines shifted.

That day, they worked late into the night. To shut out the world, they booked a meeting room, to avoid distractions. Rebecca, Mara, Jack, and Bob sat in silence except for the furious clatter of keys—their fingers striking the keyboards like sparks from a fire, each stroke heavier than the previous one.

“Oh, my back…” Rebecca finally broke the silence. Hours in the chair had left her aching.

“Same here,” Jack grinned.

“Let’s call it a night, kids…” Rebecca sighed, though hesitation lingered in her voice. There wasn’t enough time to draft the report.

“I guess, I’m canceling my pilates class tomorrow,” Mara muttered.

“We should cancel our lives until this report’s done,” Bob laughed, and the group erupted into nervous laughter. But they all knew he was right.

Rebecca reached for her phone. She shuffled papers, checked behind her laptop, then dug into her oversized bag—the one she carried home every day. Finally, at the bottom beneath her wallet, she found it.

Her face went pale. “Oh my…” she whispered.

“What happened?” Mara asked.

“Twenty‑three calls,” Rebecca said, her voice trembling. The team froze, worry spreading across their faces.

She bolted from the room and dialed her husband. “Robert?” she gasped.

“Where the hell have you been, Rebecca?” His voice was sharp, angry.

“Stuck at work. What happened? Is Emma alright?”

A heavy sigh came through the line.

“I figured you’re stuck at work, but seriously, Rebecca? You forgot you have a daughter?”

“What do you mean…” Rebecca stammered, though her mind was already piecing together the truth she had tried to block out.

“You’re kidding…” she muttered.

“You forgot to pick up our kid from kindergarten, Rebecca. Again.”

“Robert, I’m so sorry!” she murmured.

“Tell that to Emma. And to her teachers. They’ve been calling you nonstop, Rebecca! Emma was in tears when I got there to pick her up. I can’t believe you didn’t even check your phone for the last five—six—hours…”

“I’m coming home…” she said quietly.

“Do you still remember the address, or should I send it to you?” he said, his voice heavy with irony.

She hung up the phone and walked back into the meeting room. The team was already packed up, laptops in their bags, the desk cleared except for her scattered belongings.

“You can go. We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said.

“Is… everything okay?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

By midnight, Rebecca finally arrived home. She unlocked the door and slipped inside as quietly as possible. Her bag landed on the drawer by the entrance, her coat on the hook. She headed toward the living room, where the glow of the television lit Robert’s face. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. She knew he had heard her—he simply didn’t want to talk.

“Robert?” she murmured.

He turned slowly, his expression heavy with disappointment.

Rebecca barely noticed the soft patter of footsteps until Emma appeared, moving from her bedroom into the living room.

“Mum, where were you?”

Rebecca bent down, lifting her daughter into her arms despite the stabbing pain in her back.

“I was at work, baby. I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, Mum. I know you work hard.”

Rebecca kissed her gently, fighting back tears.

“Will you help me paint something for school tomorrow, Mum?” Emma asked, her voice full of hope.

“Of course,” Rebecca whispered. With Emma still in her arms, she crossed to the couch opposite Robert and sat down.

On the table lay a scatter of white pages, some already painted, markers rolling between them. Rebecca picked up a blank sheet. “Alright, what should I draw?”

“I don’t know… maybe a girl and a dog playing on the beach!” Emma said, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Sure,” Rebecca replied softly, reaching for a black marker.

Emma sat beside her on the couch while Rebecca pulled her knees up against her chest, balancing the paper on them for support. She picked up the marker and tried to draw a line for the coastline. Her hand slipped, the stroke curling awkwardly across the page. She stared at her fingers—they were trembling. Too many hours on the laptop, she thought bitterly.

She tried again, sketching the outline of the girl’s body. The marker wavered, the line uneven. Her hand shook once more, refusing to obey her.

She looked at her husband. He had already noticed the panic in her eyes.

“You know what, sweetheart? My hand doesn’t seem to follow my orders right now. But I promise I’ll wake up earlier and finish this, okay?”

“Okay, Mum!” Emma said, then rushed back to her room.

“What is it? Overworked your hands?” Robert laughed.

“I think they’re shaking…” she admitted.

“Of course they are. That laptop has become an extension of you. You can’t do anything without it anymore.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“Weren’t you into painting when you were younger?” he pressed.

“I… I was,” she replied quietly. “But now I can’t even manage the simplest things.”

Rebecca rose, went to the bedroom, and pulled a blanket from the closet. Returning to the couch, she set her alarm for six a.m., determined to try again. Her husband watched her in disbelief before turning away and heading to bed.

She woke before the alarm could sound. Memories surged through her mind as her fingers brushed against the markers. High school came rushing back—her red hair tied in a messy bun, fingertips stained with colors: red, blue, pink, and more. She had leaned over her desk with excessive zeal, dragging a yellow marker back and forth in frantic strokes.

“Did you finish your homework?” her mother had asked, already knowing the answer.

“I will, after I finish my painting!” Rebecca had replied. But her mother stormed over, snatching the paper from her hands. “First, your homework! Painting will not bring you any money!” she had shouted.

Rebecca’s eyes opened to the present. The white paper lay waiting on the table. She leaned forward, gripping the black marker between her fingers. She tried to sketch the coastline.

It was worse than the night before. Her fingers felt fused together, stiff and unresponsive. The marker slipped, the line curling away from her control. She stared at her hand—it was trembling. She tried again, forcing the outline of the girl’s body, but the strokes wavered, breaking unevenly. The lines kept escaping her, no matter how many times she had tried.

Rebecca dropped the marker onto the table and pressed her trembling hand against her forehead. The words from her mother echoed in her head.

“Painting will not bring you any money.”

She had believed these words. She had buried her passion under deadlines, reports, and endless hours at the laptop. And now, staring at the crooked lines on the page, she realized how deeply those words had carved into her life.

She closed her eyes, thoughts flooding her mind again.

I lost it. I let them take it from me. And now I can’t even give my child a simple drawing.

Was this what success looked like? she wondered. A career that consumed her hands, her mind, her time—until even the simplest joy of drawing for her daughter felt impossible.

And drawing wasn’t her only problem. Yesterday, she had been so consumed by her laptop, as if it were holding her with invisible glue, that she forgot to pick up her daughter. The realization cut through her like a blade—sharp, merciless, impossible to ignore.

She snatched the marker from the table, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white. One more attempt, she told herself. Just one more. But the result was the same—crooked, broken.

Then something else happened. Her fingers felt glued around the black marker, fused to it as if the plastic had melted into her skin. She tried to let go, but nothing. Panic surged. Her heart hammered in her chest. She clawed at it with her other hand, desperate to pry it free. Useless. The marker had become an extension of her body.

Fear made her dizzy. She dropped to the floor, pressing the marker against it, even stomping with her foot. Still impossible.

Her breath came fast, ragged, filled with anxiety. She dragged her hand back to the table, the paper now covered in frantic, tangled lines. And then terror peaked—her hand began to move on its own. Up and down, left and right, the marker slashing across the page without her command.

What is this? Letters? she thought, eyes wide. The strokes blurred, racing faster than she could follow. She tried to pin her hand down with the other, but it was useless. The marker kept going, possessed, relentless.

Finally, it stopped. Rebecca stared at the words written in jagged blank inc.

“You can’t draw anymore!”

“Nooo!” she screamed, tears streaking down her cheeks.

She blinked, disoriented. The lights were still off. The paper on the table lay untouched, white and empty. The black marker sat beside it, capped.

“What the hell was that?” Robert asked from the doorway.

She startled at the sight of him. “Was I… sleeping?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

“Great. Delusions now,” Robert muttered. “Take some days off, Rebecca. You’re harming yourself.” He turned and disappeared back into the bedroom.

Rebecca glanced at her phone. Almost six. She silenced the alarm, switched on the lights, and lifted the blank page. Closing her eyes, she pictured the drawing. Her hand reached for the markers, bypassed the black, and chose a blue.

She began sketching slowly, breathing deep, steadying herself. The lines were clumsy, imperfect. Still not what she wanted. But better than yesterday.

That’s a re-start, she thought, gazing at the fragile image. A picture her younger self would have laughed at. She set it down on the table and placed a handwritten note beside it:

“I’ll pick her up today.”

It was ten minutes past nine in the morning and she was sitting at her desk at work, next to Peter.

She was typing at her laptop fast.

“Someone’s on fire!” Peter spoke.

“What do you think?” Rebecca asked turning her screen to him.

Mrs. Johnson,

Following up on your request, I must inform you that after thorough analysis and planning, the report you will receive tomorrow for Project Glue will be half the scope of what was originally agreed.

From Monday onward, we will continue delivering the remaining analyses, adhering to the original scope and timeline. This is the only way to ensure accuracy and quality.

Kind regards,

Rebecca Henderson

Manager | Consulting Company

“Just hit it!” Peter laughed and Rebecca gave him a sly smile.

She pressed Send but her hand lingered on the mouse. It trembled. She tried to pull it away, but her fingers felt glued again. The screen flickered. For a moment, she swore she saw the words appear in bold across the email draft:

“You can’t draw anymore."

She blinked. Message gone.