I Own a House. My Coworkers Think They Own My Life.

The water dispenser in the break room gurgled. He put his paper cup under the spout, turned his head, and asked me, “That apartment of yours, still not renovated?”

“No,” I said.

“What a waste, leaving it empty. Rent it out.”

Hot water splashed the web of my thumb. I switched the cup to my left hand and said, “I’ll think about it.”

He laughed once, took his cup, and walked off. I went back to my desk. The keyboard cover had curled up at one corner. I pressed it back down, opened Excel, and kept entering numbers.

That was the first time.

The second time was at lunch. Three of them came over. One said it was a waste to leave it empty. One said sell it and take the money. One said, “We’re only thinking of you.” I closed the lid of my takeout box and said, “I’m not selling, and I’m not renting.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“I don’t need that kind of advice.”

“Oh, come on. You’re angry? I was joking.”

I opened Excel and kept entering numbers. They stood there for a while, then left. I took one bite of rice. It was cold. I swallowed it and drank some water. There was a fingerprint on the glass. I wiped it off.

The third time was in the weekly meeting. I was going through the project timeline. D cut in: “Your apartment still isn’t rented? How can you face the country like this?”

Nobody moved. The red dot of the laser pointer sat still on the screen. I put the pointer down and said, “Let’s go back to page three.”

After the meeting, D posted in the group chat: “Thirty-something and not married. Society is being ruined by people like you.”

I took a screenshot. It went into my phone. I turned the phone face down on the desk and kept revising the proposal. The keyboard was loud.

The fourth time was in the hallway. D said, “Heartless. A traitor.”

Not loud. Loud enough for me to hear. I turned around, walked up to him, and said, “That’s an insult. Take it back. Apologize.”

He laughed. “I’m joking.”

I opened the recorder and said, “Say it again.”

He didn’t. I walked away. I wiped my hands on my pants.

I wanted to throw the water glass at him. HR came out of the meeting room and called me to sign something. I put the glass down. Water spilled. I wiped it with tissues. Three tissues. HR asked, “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” I said.

After signing, I went back to my desk. The glass was still there, a small chip on the rim. I filled it with water and didn’t drink.

That night, I lay on my back. I turned onto my side. I checked the time. I called a rental agent. It rang once, and I hung up. I called again and said, “I have a bare shell. I want to rent it.”

The agent asked for the address. I said, “Never mind.”

I hung up. I sat up and saw the pothos leaves turning yellow. I watered it. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot and dripped onto the floor. I wiped it with a rag. Then I hung the rag on the faucet.

No one stopped at my desk after that. I answered questions by email. I ate lunch at my desk with the door closed. I went to the apartment. Bare shell. Concrete floor. No windows installed. Wind came through the openings. I sat on an old newspaper. I coughed once. The sound hit the walls and came back.

I wrote dates in a notebook. I pasted screenshots into a document. I printed it. I bound it. I wrote a complaint letter. I went to my manager. The manager said, “Ignore them.”

I said, “It’s affecting my work.”

He was silent. I went to HR. HR held a meeting. D stopped saying things to my face. He stopped in the group chat too. But when he passed my desk, he snorted. I acted like I didn’t hear it. I put a copy of the complaint letter in my drawer. The key was in my bag.

After work, I went to the apartment. I measured the windows. I pulled out the tape measure. The metal edge cut my finger. I put the finger in my mouth, then kept measuring. I wrote the numbers in my phone notes. I measured the door frame. I measured the wall height. I stood in the middle of the bare shell and turned on my phone flashlight. The light hit the concrete wall. There was a small pit. I touched it. It was rough.

The next day at work, D was in the elevator. He looked at his phone. I looked at the floor numbers. The elevator stopped at the twelfth floor. He got out. I went on to the fifteenth. I opened my computer. I was halfway through the weekly report when D sent a work message in the group chat. I replied: Received.

I sent the weekly report. To: project team. Cc: none. Attachment: this week’s data.

I set my phone to silent. The apartment was still a bare shell. Tomorrow I would take the tape measure and measure the door frame.