The Chair Next to Hers Is Empty Now

Three years sitting next to her. The one who taught her everything from day one, who used to split her afternoon snacks at 3pm whenever the whole office was running on empty. Today that colleague hands in her resignation, and the chair beside her is about to go quiet.

On the last day, everyone takes photos, everyone's smiling. But watching her friend clear out her desk, she looks at the empty snack drawer and feels something drop — not because she's losing someone convenient to have around, but because she's losing the only person who made this place worth staying for.

That night she sits with a question: is she staying for the work, or out of fear of change? Her friend had found somewhere better long before she left — she just never said so. And her? Two years without ever really looking. Just telling herself this is fine, I guess.

She doesn't quit the next morning. But she opens her CV for the first time in two years and starts filling in what she's actually done. Not to jump ship in a hurry — to know what she's holding. So that next time, if she leaves, it's because she chose to.

Someone leaving, and it stings — that's normal. What she taught me, I carry on my own now.

The chair is still empty. Her CV isn't, anymore.

If the person who taught you everything just walked out the door, would you still remember what you're holding?