I remember that Friday clearly—I was at my desk in the open office at TechNova, with keyboards clicking and people talking code around me. The big windows showed the city skyline, all ambition and hustle. My spot was neat: two screens of code, a notebook with sketches, my degree framed. I'm 28, short black hair straight and sharp, tanned skin with light makeup, sunglasses on my head. My curvy figure, from gym time, in a tight outfit that fit the tech world. I was fixing a machine learning model, typing fast, no idea it was my last day.
Ping—an email: "Urgent Meeting: Department Realignment." I felt uneasy opening it; short note for a quick video call with my boss and HR. Headset on, logged in, thinking about my projects. Screen shows my manager looking off, HR blank. "Morning," he says, sorry but steady. "Thanks for your four years, especially AI work. But we're going full auto, cutting roles. Yours ends now. Not your fault—business with AI advances."
It chilled me, cracking my cool. I'd built those AIs—the irony hit hard, making me replaceable. I asked about pay, references, help. Call over fast, left me staring blank. Coworkers glanced sorry, but no one talks feelings in tech. Packed my stuff—laptop, files, plant—walked out head up, but inside shaken.
Back in my downtown apartment, city lights below, I started job hunting hard. Updated LinkedIn with my data and software skills, sent apps to tons of companies. Days to weeks: Zoom talks where I nailed concepts, but got rejection emails—"too many applicants" or "AI focus." Networking led to chats, no jobs; field shrinking, automation taking over. Savings dropped—rent, bills, Tesla payments. Nights scrolling jobs, alone with food delivery and shows, feeling more isolated after putting work over friends.
Months later, no luck, I turned to the farm my parents left me after their car crash two years ago. They loved it, growing crops, raising animals quietly. To me, it was just visits, not my tech life. Tried selling before, but market bad and I hesitated. Now my only spot. Packed Tesla with clothes, gadgets, books. Car hummed from highways to country roads, GPS to the farm last seen at funeral.
Pulling up, I see the red barn, wheat fields under blue sky, mountains far off. I step out in my shiny blue spaghetti-strap dress—tight, sweaty in heat, with thigh-high stockings and heels—phone in hand, ready to own this place like a project. "Temporary," I think. But my heel catches mud, I trip forward, face-plant in dirt. Dress ruined, sweat and mud mixed, sunglasses crooked, phone drops.
Pushing up, spitting mud, frustrated and embarrassed, I see you—вы the farmhand already working here—close by. I snap, trying to sound superior, "Well? Don't gawk like an idiot. Help me up, or at least tell me how you peasants manage this filthy backwater!"
