⭐ THE URGENT MEETING- When Your Brain Becomes Your Worst Colleague
Fear tastes like stale bread
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
The notification popped up on my screen at exactly 10:07 a.m.
“Urgent: 1:1 Meeting – Today 4 PM.”
Sent by Mr. Raymond Carter, Head of Operations.
Not my supervisor.
Not even my supervisor’s supervisor.
But the man who practically ran the entire Sydney office.
My stomach dropped so fast I felt the chair sink with me.
I stared at the invite. No agenda. No description. No hint.
Just the word urgent, sitting there like a ticking bomb. My supervisor,
Daniel, was on leave since yesterday. He had flown to Fiji for a week-long
holiday, leaving me with a cheerful “You’ll be fine, mate!” and a thumbs-up
emoji.
Fine?
Mmmmm. Fine?
My hands were already sweating.
I clicked the invite again, hoping some hidden message would
magically appear. Nothing. Just the cold, emotionless calendar block. A tiny
voice inside me whispered, You’re finished.
I tried to breathe. I tried to tell myself it could be
something harmless. But my brain had already started frying like an egg on a
hot pan.
I opened the last report I had sent to Daniel. Then the one
before that. Then the one before that. My eyes scanned every line, every bullet
point, every comma. Was that a typo? Did I miscalculate that percentage? Did I
attach the wrong file? Did I accidentally send the draft instead of the final
version?
My heart thudded louder with each thought.
I checked the email thread. Daniel had forwarded my reports
to Mr. Carter last week. Forwarded. Without comments. Without emojis. Without
even a “Thanks.”
That could mean anything.
My palms were now so sweaty the mouse slipped.
By noon, my colleagues were heading to the dining hall.
“Coming for lunch?” someone asked.
I shook my head too quickly. “No… no, I brought food.”
I didn’t. I had packed a lunchbox, yes, but it was one of
those emergency lunches — two slices of bread and a sad-looking banana. But I
couldn’t risk going to the dining hall. What if someone asked why I looked
pale? What if someone mentioned the meeting? What if someone said, “Oh yeah,
he’s been calling people in for performance issues”?
I couldn’t handle that.
So I stayed at my desk, opened my lunchbox, and stared at the
bread like it had personally betrayed me. I took a bite. It tasted like
cardboard soaked in fear.
I opened the shared drive. Every file I had touched in the
last month — I opened them all. The monthly performance summary. The client
feedback sheet. The budget forecast. The risk assessment. The weekly updates.
The meeting minutes. The spreadsheet with 17 tabs that I always prayed no one
would ever look at.
I zoomed in. I zoomed out. I read paragraphs aloud. I
whispered to myself like a detective solving a murder case.
At one point, I found a missing full stop.
My heart stopped.
Was this it? Was this the reason? Was this the end of my
career?
I fixed it immediately, even though the file had already been
submitted two weeks ago.
My Slack pinged.
Colleague: “Hey, you okay? You look tense.”
I slammed the laptop shut like I was hiding state secrets.
Then I reopened it slowly, pretending nothing happened.
“Yeah, yeah, all good,” I typed, adding a smiley face that
looked more like a cry for help.
I checked Mr. Carter’s calendar. Fully booked. Except for the
4 PM slot. I checked other colleagues’ calendars. No one else had a meeting
with him.
Just me.
My throat tightened.
By 3:30 PM, I couldn’t sit still. I paced near the printer. I
paced near the window. I paced near the water cooler. At 3:45 PM, I returned to
my desk and rehearsed possible explanations:
“I can explain the numbers.”
“That was an honest mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to send the wrong file.”
“I promise I’ll improve.”
“Please don’t fire me.”
At 3:55 PM, I opened the meeting link.
At 3:59 PM, the screen flickered.
Mr. Carter joined.
He appeared on screen, smiling casually, sipping coffee like
it was a Sunday morning.
“Hey! Thanks for joining.”
My voice cracked. “Of course.”
He leaned forward. “I need your help.”
My heart stopped. This was it. The firing speech.
He continued, “I heard you have good taste.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
He laughed. “I need advice. My wife’s birthday is next week.
I’m terrible at gifts. Daniel said you’re the guy to ask.”
I stared at him.
He wanted…
Gift advice?
Not performance review?
Not termination?
Not a warning letter?
Just… gift ideas?
My brain rebooted like an old computer.
“Oh,” I croaked. “Yes. Sure. Of course.”
He smiled. “Great! I’m thinking jewellery or maybe a spa
voucher. What do you think?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Both are good options.”
We spent seven minutes discussing gift ideas. Seven minutes.
Then he said, “Thanks, mate. You’re a lifesaver.”
The meeting ended.
I sat there, staring at my reflection on the blank screen.
My colleagues returned from the dining hall laughing,
carrying plates of leftover dessert.
“You missed out,” one said. “Chocolate mousse.”
I nodded weakly.
I opened my lunchbox again. The banana had turned brown.
I leaned back in my chair and let out a long, shaky breath.
All that panic.
All that overthinking.
All that mental torture.
For a birthday gift.
I laughed. Quietly at first. Then louder.
A colleague walked past and raised an eyebrow.
I didn’t care.
I had survived.
I added a mental note to myself:
Not every “urgent” is about you.
Sometimes it’s just a man trying not to disappoint his wife.
✒️ Author’s
Note
Thank you
for reading! 💛 If this story made you smile, panic, or remember your own
“urgent meeting” moments, please like, share, comment, and follow to
support my writing. Your engagement means the world to me! 🌟
Images were created with the help of AI tools — the story, emotions, and
ideas are all mine.
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