The Scrap of Newspaper in the Fence

Dear Delyara, It is 4:15 AM, and a wet, torn page from a financial newspaper has become wedged in the chain-link fence directly opposite my desk window. It’s flapping violently in the wind, a sharp, repetitive sound that sounds like someone tapping against the glass. I can make out a few large words printed on the soggy paper—something about shifting interest rates and corporate restructuring in London. It feels like a taunt from a world I am currently locked out of. I am sitting here in a high-vis jacket with an advanced business degree in my bag, while the actual machinery of commerce moves on without me just twenty miles down the road. I stood up, walked out into the rain, and ripped the paper off the wire, tossing it into the bin so I could have some peace.