Over the next few days, I discreetly questioned my colleagues, watching for any hint of guilt or recognition in their eyes. Most seemed genuinely baffled by my inquiries, but one interaction stood out. Sarah, a junior associate, hesitated when I asked her about the break room computers.
“I don’t think I’ve used them recently,” she said, avoiding eye contact. Her fingers fidgeted with a pen, her demeanor unusually tense.
“Let me know if you remember anything,” I said, feigning casualness.
Later that day, I checked the office security footage. My heart raced as I watched the grainy images of Sarah entering the break room on May 3rd, lingering at the computer. It was enough to confirm my suspicions.
I confronted her the next morning, choosing a quiet moment when the office was nearly empty. “Sarah,” I began, “why did you apply for the hunting license in my name?”
Her eyes widened, fear flashing across her face. “I didn’t mean any harm,” she stammered. “I thought it would be funny, a harmless joke.”
“A joke that wasted my time and resources,” I replied, my voice hard. “I trusted you.”
She apologized profusely, but the damage was done. Trust, once broken, is hard to rebuild. The incident left me questioning not only my colleagues but the dynamics of my work environment.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered.
