Chapter 2 | Arrival at the Company

I breathed in while counting to four, held until six, then breathed out until eight. Something I’d read somewhere. Apparently, it’s pretty useful for sleeping.

I started walking toward the bus stop. It was dark, but not too cold. That was already something good.

I could hear laughter behind me, a name called a little too loudly, a suitcase rolling on the sidewalk. People were already very awake. I wasn’t especially tired.

“This year will be different,” I repeated mentally.

Not like some huge promise. Just like a thread, thin, that I could keep between my fingers.

I slipped my hand into my pocket.

The strawberry candy.

I hesitated, then unwrapped it. The paper crackled. The taste hit me cleanly, sweet and soft, a small chemical joy. I smiled, alone, like an idiot. Those mini-victories never last very long, but I decided to count them anyway.

The bus arrived in a warm breath. I raised my hand by reflex, even though the driver had already seen me. Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and seat fatigue. I chose an isolated place, window side.

Always window side.

It’s useful for having something to lean on and pretending to think, when really, I just want to look outside.

The engine growled. I took out my earphones before drowning myself in music. Outside, the streets slid past, the shop windows stretched out. My reflection slipped across the glass, transparent between the sky and the buildings.

I wondered what kind of face you give back when you’re not smiling.

I had no idea.

But mine mostly looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t bother asking for directions.

A woman in her fifties sat down next to me. There were several other seats available, though. She wore strong perfume, a wide wedding ring, and kept her eyes fixed on her phone. I tucked my elbows in a little. I prefer compressing myself on my own rather than risking surprise physical contact.

She sighed. Not because of me, luckily, just because of life, I think. And that was almost reassuring.

My heart was beating faster again than expected.

First day. New position. New start.

I repeated the words to myself like a personal mantra, but deep down, I had that absurd fear: what if nothing changed? What if I stayed that guy who’s too kind, too silent, the one people forget in a room without even realizing it?

The bus braked suddenly. A little girl laughed, her father grumbled, the woman beside me swore softly. I held onto the pole.

I caught sight of my face in the window: my lips were dry, my eyes evasive.

I forced them to stay on their reflection.

One second.

Two.

And I turned my head.

The seat vibrated under my legs. The automatic announcements followed one another.

“Next stop: Business Park - Alpha Building.”

My stop.

I put my bag back on my shoulder, the knot in my stomach pulled tight.

“Excuse me… ma’am,” I said, to ask to get past.

She apologized too, as if we had both committed some serious fault by sharing the same square of bus, then she stood up to let me out. I don’t even know why I stressed.

The door opened onto a puff of warm air. The weather had heated up. In front of me, the building stood there: glass facade, sharp angles, the kind of place where people wear ironed shirts and know what to do with their little hands.

I took my brand-new badge out of my bag. A small plastic rectangle where my name was printed too small.

“Eliott Bellamy - Accounting Work-Study Student”

It almost shone in the sun, like a pride sticker bought too early. Also, the photo was a little bad. But apparently, it’s the same for everyone. A kind of administrative equality.

I walked toward the entrance. The automatic doors opened with that neat hiss belonging to places where you’re supposed to behave properly, while the lobby smelled of coffee, expensive perfumes, and air conditioning.

A receptionist looked up.

“First day?”

“Yes… Hello… Ma’am, uh… Eliott Bellamy, B-E-L-L-A-M-Y. For the accounting department.”

She tapped on her keyboard, with that dry sound of professionalism that reception people probably master from birth.

“Perfect, Mister. Fifth floor. You badge here, then at the elevator.”

I nodded.

In the elevator, I was alone with my reflection, again.

The stainless-steel walls turned my face into a gray mosaic. I wondered what self- confidence looked like, in reflection.

Probably not like that.

The numbers went by: 1… 2… 3…

I remembered an article I’d read somewhere: you only get one chance to make a good impression.

Great.

Really the kind of sentence written to encourage shy people.

I had about twenty seconds left to become someone else. Then I remembered a technique I’d seen on social media: the body influences the brain, or something like that. In theory, if you smile or move like someone confident, the brain follows to maintain some kind of internal coherence.

So, in a burst of genius, I did two small jumps in place while straightening up a little.

Result: no new confidence, but slight shortness of breath.

That was already an experiment…

When the doors opened, a corridor spread out in front of me. Gray floor, white walls, the smell of warm paper. Voices, far away. Muffled laughter too. Heels on the floor, somewhere further down.

I introduced myself at the accounting department reception, a small glass office where a woman with round glasses was sorting folders.

“Hello ma’am, I’m the new work-study student.”

“Ah! Eliott?” she said with a sincere smile. “Welcome! Have a seat, I’ll let Pascal know.”

I nodded, again, and waited.

Time stretched, heavy. I looked around me. Potted succulents, a water dispenser, a “Go 2026!” sign.

The offices were open, aligned, each one with giant screens and an ergonomic chair that probably had more emotional support than I did.

A man appeared in the doorway. In his fifties, elegant, immaculate white shirt, a gaze that assesses before greeting.

“Eliott Bellamy, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pascal Delmas, your manager. I’ve heard about you.”

He shook my hand. Firm… but not crushing. It was almost a relief.

“We’ll put you on bank reconciliations to start with. You’ll see, it’s fascinating. Like watching paint dry.”

I smiled politely.

“Yes, of course.”

“Perfect. Follow me.”

We crossed the open space. Faces behind screens. Some looked up, others didn’t. The sound of keyboards was like a collective heartbeat.

I felt tiny among those piles of files.

My desk, all the way at the back, was waiting for me: a chair, a computer, an empty pen holder.

Mister Delmas pointed at the screen.

“You’ll find everything you need on the shared drive. And if you struggle, ask Clara, the lawyer from the department next door. She’s nicer than me.”

He paused, then added, lower:

“No, I’m joking. She used to be in the department. She knows your future tasks very well and she’s better at explaining things than some people here. Also, she likes newcomers.”

“Okay, sir.”

He patted my shoulder.

“Welcome to the jungle, Eliott.”

And he left.

I sat down.

The screen lit up. Blue wallpaper.

I was crossed by a strange impression: being in an improved version of high school, except with people paid to pretend they liked it.

Clara greeted me as she passed.

“Hey! Hi, little new guy! If you want water, the fountain is on the left. And if you want gossip, I provide that too.”

I laughed softly.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Careful, I remember promises.”

She left again, her skirt swinging with an almost musical rhythm in the corridor. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile, in the end.

Just… foreign.

At noon, everyone disappeared all at once. The silence of the office swallowed me.

I hesitated to go out to eat, then preferred to stay. I opened my Tupperware, cold pasta with butter, salted, obviously, and opened an Excel file to pretend I was absorbed.

Outside, the reflection of the bay window sent back my silhouette, tiny, sitting in the middle of an office too big for me. I saw myself, head bent, shoulders hunched.

An image of a man who erases himself well.

I pushed my Tupperware away.

I thought of university, of Aïcha’s laugh, of the strawberry candy. I imagined she was probably already laughing with others. I was here, calculating numbers that didn’t make sense yet.

The afternoon continued in slow motion. Files, numbers, ordinary sentences.

At 5 p.m., I closed my computer. The offices were already emptying.

On the way down, I crossed paths with Clara again.

“You survived your first day?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“Perfect. If you need advice, come see me. But not for work, okay. For the vending machine cakes.”

“Noted.”

I smiled, sincerely this time. Then I went outside.

Out there, the late-afternoon light was falling on the windows. Each facade sent back a piece of sky. I saw myself in them again.

Same posture, same evasive gaze.

But there was this tiny difference: in the reflection, I was moving forward.

Maybe that was enough, for today.

The bus back was almost empty. I took the same seat, window side. The taste of strawberry came back to my mouth, a phantom memory of the candy. The bus rolled through the slanting light. Outside, the shop windows became mirrors.

Every time I passed in front of one, my face split, melted, disappeared.

It was strange, but not painful.

As if I were still a draft.

That evening, in my studio, I turned on the desk lamp. The walls were bare, a little too white.

No snack today. Well, I could have, technically. But I didn’t feel like it. And then I was already hungry enough to make myself a real meal.

Today, it will be…

I opened the fridge and stood planted in front of it, staring at its contents as if a brilliant idea might spring out of a plain yogurt.

Spoiler: no.

Actually, my fridge mostly looked like the endgame of culinary Tetris.

Milk, syrup… and leftovers. There was a bowl of old rice left, two eggs, a slightly soft zucchini, and a half-empty bag of grated cheese.

Not exactly the banquet of the century.

But well…

With enough hunger, and a minimum of imagination, you can work miracles with next to nothing.

Today’s recipe will be…

When my magnificent dish was ready, I sat down without turning on the TV. Just with the lamp, the distant noise of the street, and that slightly empty tiredness that follows days when you tried to be normal as best you could.

It was good.

Really good.

Worthy of a cooking competition.

And for tonight, that was already exceptional.

I took my shower. Hot water ran over my skin, and my shoulders finally relaxed. Then, facing the fogged bathroom mirror, my reflection blurred until it became a small ghost.

I wiped it with the flat of my hand, slowly.

Behind the fog, my face didn’t reappear clearly.

It was just still blurry.

Obviously.

As I slipped into bed, I thought back to that week. To the laughter in the lecture hall. To Aïcha’s hand placing the candy on the table. To the way she had said to me:

“You’re bad at lying.”

I remembered her gaze, clear, without judgment. Maybe there were people who didn’t try to repair, or hurt.

Just to see.

In the silence, the noise of the city rocked me. Cars, a dog in the distance, footsteps in the hall.

The world kept going, and me with it. Not forward, not yet, but… not completely at the edge anymore.

I closed my eyes.

And I had this tiny thought, a little stupid:

Maybe next time, I could tell her yes.