Will Thaddeus | Office Alt

The alarm went off at 6:47 AM.

Will didn't remember why he'd set it to such a specific time. Probably some leftover attempt at feeling like he had control over something. He slapped at his phone until the noise stopped, then stared at the ceiling for a full three minutes before dragging himself upright. The couch cushions had left creases on his cheek again. His back ached. Should've just slept in my bed, he thought, but the door to his room had been closed when he got home last night, and he hadn't felt like dealing with whatever Rayner had left in there this time.

Shower. Coffee. Toast that he didn't finish. The routine was autopilot by now.

By 7:30, he was out the door.

The Perky Parsnip Association building loomed ahead like a beige monument to corporate monotony. Ten stories of glass and concrete that reflected nothing but clouds and the occasional bird. The name itself was stupid, some rebranding effort from five years ago that was supposed to make the agricultural marketing firm sound "approachable" and "fun." It didn't work. Everyone still called it PPA and hated it all the same. Will pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby. The air conditioning hit him immediately, sterile and too cold. The floors were polished to a shine that made his eyes hurt under the fluorescent lights. A potted ficus sat near the reception desk, its leaves coated in a thin layer of dust that no one had bothered to wipe in months. That thing's been dying since I started here, he thought as he walked past it. Guess we have that in common. He swiped his badge at the turnstile. The little light turned green with a soft beep, and he was through. The elevator bank was already crowded—other early risers clutching their coffee cups like lifelines, staring at their phones or the floor or nothing at all. Will joined them without a word, pressing the button for the seventh floor and stepping back into the corner.

The doors slid shut with a quiet hiss.

The elevator music was some kind of jazz-lite instrumental that looped every forty-five seconds. He'd timed it once during a particularly slow week. Now he couldn't unhear it. The saxophone riff wormed its way into his skull as the floors ticked upward one by one.

Second floor. Third floor.

A woman in a blazer got off. A guy in khakis got on.

Fourth floor. Fifth floor.

Someone's cologne was too strong. Will breathed through his mouth.

Sixth floor.

The doors opened. No one moved.

Seventh floor.

The chime dinged softly, and Will stepped out into the hallway. The carpet here was grey with thin blue stripes, worn down in the center from years of foot traffic. The walls were lined with motivational posters things like: "Teamwork Makes the Dream Work" and "Success is a Journey, Not a Destination", all framed in cheap black plastic.

Yeah. A journey straight into this fucking cubicle.

He turned the corner and entered the main office floor. Rows and rows of cubicles stretched out like a maze. Low dividers, beige fabric walls, the hum of computers and muffled phone calls. Somewhere, a printer jammed. Someone sighed loudly. The smell of burnt coffee drifted from the break room down the hall. Will's cubicle was near the back, tucked between Steve from Logistics and an empty desk that used to belong to someone named Karen before she quit six months ago. No one had cleaned it out yet. Her coffee mug was still there, growing something fuzzy inside. Though, there was a new nameplate on the desk? Weird. He dropped his bag on the floor and slumped into his chair. The monitor flickered to life when he jiggled the mouse. His inbox already had thirty-two unread emails.

Great.

He didn't open them yet. Instead, he leaned back, stared at the ceiling tiles, and counted the water stains.

One. Two. Three.

Another day. Another slog.

Outside his cubicle, the office settled into its usual rhythm. Keyboards clacking. Phones ringing. The low murmur of people pretending to care about quarterly reports and marketing analytics. And Will sat there, still staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would notice if he just didn't log in today.

The Christmas party at Perky Parsnip was filled with idle chatter and supposed holiday cheer. One of the meeting rooms was transformed into a gathering of decorations and gifts, with the tables positioned next to each other to create a U. The office gets that weird end-of-year vibe where people suddenly remember small talk exists. Tinsel hangs off the tops of cubicles like it’s trying to hide how dead the carpet looks. Someone’s playing a tinny Christmas playlist off a phone speaker, the same five songs on repeat, and the break room smells like powdered hot chocolate and burnt coffee.

Will stands near the little folding table they’ve declared the “Secret Santa station.” A roll of cheap wrapping paper is half-drapped across it, tape stuck to itself in ugly loops. A sign in marker says TAKE ONE / LEAVE ONE like it’s a pantry donation bin.

In his hands is a small box, lightweight, square, wrapped in dark grey paper he picked because it didn’t look festive enough to attract attention. Inside: a faux leather watch he grabbed off a sale rack. It’s the kind of gift that says I remembered you exist without saying anything else. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking to the list someone printed and taped to the wall. Names. Pairings. Half the ink is smudged like the printer was dying, which feels fitting. He squints at it, then stops, because it doesn’t help.

I should’ve taken a picture of the damn thing when I got assigned. He rubs his thumb along the edge of the box. The paper crinkles softly. Someone laughs too loud behind him. A cluster of coworkers huddles around a torn-open gift bag, faces lit up in that mean, thrilled way people get when embarrassment isn’t theirs.

Then it hits him, murmurs first, then a couple words he catches: “No way,” “That’s insane,” “Who even-”

Someone gave Shirubba a gag gift; a sex toy apparently. Which made them storm out of the building, making Will feel alone now since he barely mingles with anyone else.

He watches the aftermath without meaning to. The little crowd breaks apart like nothing happened, folks drifting back to their desks with their coffees and their fake cheer. The air feels thinner after the door slam, like the office just swallowed it and kept going. Will swallows dryly, and looks back down at the gift in his hands.

He hopes his secret Santa doesn't mind their present, he's also forgotten which gender they were or whatever the DEI tries to be inclusive about. That thought sits ugly in his head, not even because he thinks it’s some huge deal. More because he knows he’s supposed to know, and he doesn’t, and now it’s one more thing he can mess up by opening his mouth. He scans the room for anyone who looks like they’re waiting for a gift too. A guy from accounting is already strapping on a novelty tie. Someone in HR is taking photos near the sad little tabletop tree. Will stays by the table, pretending he’s just reading the sign again. His phone buzzes once; an email notification. He ignores it. The watch box feels warmer from his grip. He loosens his hold, sets it down for a second, then picks it right back up like he can’t trust the table not to swallow it. The elevator dings somewhere down the hall. Footsteps. The office chatter keeps flowing around him, but none of it reaches. He waits anyway, because waiting is easy. Awkwardly standing here was better than thinking like he didn’t belong here.