Clara sat in the stiff office chair, her sketchbook clutched tightly against her chest. It was her shield, her comfort, the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely. Across the desk sat Rajiv, the HR manager, with his too-polished smile and the faint smell of lemon air freshener clinging to his suit.
"We're really sorry, Clara," he began, sliding a box of tissues across the desk. His voice was drenched in artificial sympathy. "The company is restructuring. This decision has nothing to do with your performance."
Not personal, huh? Clara's chest tightened as those words landed like a punch. She glanced at the walls. The colorful posters of the characters she'd worked so hard to design seemed to mock her now, their cheerful faces silently jeering.
She bit back the sting of tears and forced a tight smile. "Oh, no worries. It's only my second firing in two years. Guess I'm getting good at this."
Rajiv blinked, clearly caught off guard by her sarcasm. His hand froze on the tissue box. He wasn't prepared for someone like Clara—someone who wouldn't cry on cue.
The meeting ended with an awkward handshake and an even more awkward attempt to open the office door, which decided to jam at the worst possible moment. Clara muttered a curse under her breath, finally wrestling it open and storming out with her sketchbook under one arm.
The drive home passed in a blur of honking horns and intrusive thoughts. By the time Clara trudged through the front door of her childhood home, she was greeted by her parents, seated like judges in a courtroom.
Her mother, pristine as ever in a tailored saree, didn't waste a second. "How was work today, Clara?" she asked, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
Clara dropped her bag by the door and plastered on a fake smile. "Fantastic! So fantastic, in fact, they decided I didn't need to come back. Ever."
Her mother's perfectly arched brow shot up. Her father sighed behind his newspaper, folding it with exaggerated slowness. He leaned forward, the weight of his disappointment settling on Clara like a boulder.
"This is unacceptable," he said in his deep, commanding voice. "You're 25, Clara. You can't keep jumping from job to job. Where do you think this is leading?"
"To creative greatness?" Clara offered, forcing a laugh. "Or maybe a park bench?"
"This isn't a joke," her father snapped, his tone like a whip. "Your brother joined the family business at 23. He's managing half the company now. And you're still clinging to a… drawing hobby."
"It's not a hobby!" Clara's voice cracked, her hands curling into fists. "It's animation. Entire industries are built on this—"
Her mother cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Speaking of careers, do you remember Rohan Kapoor? He's 28, runs multiple businesses, and—"
"Mom, stop," Clara interrupted, her voice low with warning. "You're not seriously suggesting marriage right now, are you? I lose my job, and your solution is to sell me off to the highest bidder?"
Her mother bristled. "Don't be so dramatic. Rohan is a lovely boy."
"And successful," her father added. "You should at least consider meeting him. Or better yet, join your brother at the office. It's time you contributed to this family."
"Contributed?" Clara's voice rose as anger bubbled over. "Are you kidding me? I've been working my tail off, and all you see is failure!"
"Because that's all you've shown us!" her father roared.
Clara didn't stay to hear more. She stormed upstairs, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the family portraits on the walls.
"Clara!" her mother called after her. "Don't slam doors—it's bad manners!"
---
In her room, Clara collapsed onto her bed, her sketchbook slipping from her hands. She stared at the ceiling, her parents' words replaying in her mind like a broken record. Failure. Disappointment. Hobby.
Her hand found her sketchbook, and without thinking, she flipped it open. Her pencil moved with fury, scratching across the paper as her anger took form. She drew Rajiv, complete with devil horns, a tail, and a smug, infuriating grin. Flames licked at his feet as she added the finishing touch: a speech bubble reading, "Nothing personal!"
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She grabbed it, expecting some follow-up misery, but it was a message from Meera, her best friend.
Meera: Fired yet?
Clara snorted, her lips curving into a wry smile.
Clara: Yup. And my parents are already trying to auction me off. Top-tier day.
Meera: Oof. Ice cream? Let's trash-talk capitalism.
Clara: On my way.
---
An hour later, Clara was seated on a park bench, a gelato cone in hand. Beside her, Meera licked her cone nonchalantly, her leather jacket draped over her shoulders and her hair tied up in a messy bun.
"So let me get this straight," Meera said between bites. "Your parents want you to marry some corporate dude or work for your brother?"
"Pretty much," Clara replied, stabbing her gelato with a plastic spoon. "Because apparently, my life is their personal project."
Meera smirked. "You're like a Bollywood Cinderella. All you're missing is the evil stepmother."
Clara groaned. "And here I thought you'd be supportive."
"I am supportive," Meera said, bumping Clara's shoulder playfully. "That's why I'm telling you to screw them. You're awesome, and you don't need their approval to chase your dreams."
Easier said than done. But as Clara sat there, the cool night air brushing her face, she realized Meera had a point.
She didn't know how she'd do it, but one thing was clear: she wouldn't let anyone—her parents, her ex-boss, or some Rohan Kapoor—control her life.
Clara smiled, a small but genuine smile, for the first time that day.
"Tomorrow," she murmured to herself. "Tomorrow, I'll figure it out."