When I was twenty-three, I met someone. She was thirty-eight, fifteen years older than me. She was my superior and the one who brought me into the industry. She taught me to pour tea steadily, speak slowly, and always leave myself some room to maneuver. I respected her, and I feared her.
Later, I climbed the ladder and had everything, but some words, held back for more than twenty years, never made it past my lips. In front of everyone, I was the model of composure. Only I knew that a light had always been burning in my heart.
This story is written for that light, and for the words I couldn't say back then.
