Dear Anna, 

I said no to a hypothetical job offer and feel like the villain of a corporate drama. The Ungrateful.

It wasn’t really an offer, more of a tip-off, an invitation from Elena who would like to see me back. You know, have someone to commiserate with. And I don’t blame her. I can almost see her sitting in that basement office. It’s where you can’t tell if it’s day or night, even with the windows. She’s watching the hurried steps of passersby as they go about their days, doing anything but sit in that room. I can hear six people talking into headsets. Six online meetings, all happening at the same time. The upper management is permanently cocooned in their meeting rooms. Trying to figure out new ways to say ‘be grateful to work here,’ without using those exact words. They can’t afford another HR debacle.  

I remember my first lunch in that office. Sushi. Trays and trays of it. Oat milk matcha lattes. Caramel macchiatos. And a post-meal napping area downstairs, just in case you needed a refresh before the 2 pm meeting. The utopia. The place everyone would love to work for. Yet, it felt more like a retirement home you ended up living in, not because you wanted to, but because everyone else agreed it was time. “The golden handcuffs,” Charlie said. “I’m getting out of here as soon as I finish my trading school.” Everybody wanted to leave. They all hated the job, but couldn’t find anything else that paid more or the same. So they stayed put. And so did I. And I took up writing resignation letters as a hobby. 

I wrote nineteen resignation letters while working there, all saved in my drafts folder. The first one was just a generic online template, barely personalised, short and factual. No emotions, no drama, no baggage. It was fitting as I wrote it within the first week of working there. The twelfth one was different. I was pissed, and I wanted everyone to know about it. It involved words like, “How dare you!”—with an exclamation mark—and “shove it up your leadership.” I didn’t just want to leave; I wanted to galvanise the whole office and create a movement.

My work password was there to remind me of one thing, and one thing only: 

Ihatemyjob:999 

Then 1h@temyj0b!!! 

Then iL0athemyjobsu(ksa$$

The sentiment stayed the same. 

And then one day, it was time to polish up one of my driest drafts. So, I typed in my title and my last day of work, murmured something about best wishes, and hit send.  

Can you blame me for not wanting to go back? 

Turns out, I can. And I’m afraid I’m not even the only one. 

With strangers, it’s easier to understand. “You don’t want to go back to free breakfast and lunch in the office? What’s wrong with you?” It’s predictable. But when my friends say, “Well, can’t you just think of it as a temporary contract? 6 months and then out? I mean, it’s not like you have a line of employers waiting to hire you,” it starts to sting. And then there’s my father, shaking his head. The man who quit a cushy investment banking job after a month, because “I’m not the kind who takes orders,” and never worked for anyone but himself. He’s looking at me, disappointed. Did he teach me nothing?  

The shame creeps in. Or maybe it had never really left in the first place. Do I even have the right to say no? 

I’m miserable now anyway. I can be miserable with a paycheque.

All my love,

Dummy