The Light is Breaking and I Have Nothing to Show for This Watch But a Full Bin

Dear Delyara, It is 5:45 AM, and the pale, cold morning light is exposing every crack in the concrete walls of this room. I am looking down at the small plastic rubbish bin next to my chair—it is completely filled with empty energy drink cans, dirty paper towels, and the plastic wrappers of cheap painkillers. That is the literal residue of my last twelve hours of existence. I haven't moved our brand architecture forward tonight; I haven't closed a property deal; I’ve just survived. The ice under my feet feels so thin tonight, Delyara. I am terrified that the grand design—the exhibition in London, the relocation to Iran, the financial freedom—is just a beautiful story I tell myself so I don't look at this uniform and completely lose my mind.