You spent ten years building someone else's dream. Then one Tuesday you stopped.
You gave a decade to a company that wouldn't remember your name. The day you quit was the first day you actually started working.
You showed up every morning at 7:45.
Same desk. Same coffee. Same ceiling.
For ten years.
You built things that had someone else's name on them.
Celebrated wins that filled someone else's bank account.
And told yourself this was the smart move.
Stable. Predictable. Responsible.
But every Sunday night your chest tightened.
Not because the job was hard.
Because it was easy.
And easy was the thing killing you.
You had ideas.
Notebooks full of them.
Sketched during lunch breaks.
Whispered into voice memos on the drive home.
But you never acted.
Because acting meant risking the salary.
And the salary was the cage you decorated so beautifully.
Ten years of golden handcuffs.
Then one Tuesday morning you didn't drive to the office.
You drove past it. And kept going. That was the first real commute of your life.