Help Wanted

They told me once—this is how it happens.

You are offered a position you never applied for. The title sounds noble enough, though no one ever says it aloud. The pay is nothing, but you are assured it’s “rewarding.” Advancement? That’s for others—people with names on their doors.

You are on call every hour of every day, though they pretend there is such a thing as “time off.” You learn that the work does not end when the clock stops ticking; it simply follows you home and sleeps beside you.

Others in your office clock out. They rest, travel, laugh. You cover for them in their absence, because someone must. You begin to forget where their duties end and your life begins.

Eventually, nothing is yours. Not your body. Not your time. Not even your thoughts. You learn to swallow your protests, because when you speak up, you are told you sound ungrateful. When you ask for help, you discover the fine print: every favor comes with a leash.

You will be told to “figure it out,” to “make it work.” And somehow, you will—at the cost of sleep, of health, of small joys that once marked the rhythm of your days.

Then comes the cruelest part. When you realise you are being used, when you whisper that word—exploited—they laugh. “Who else would have you?” they ask. “Who else could do what you do?”

You will think that makes you irreplaceable. It does not. It only makes you useful.

And when you find a way to earn, to build a door out of that place, they will call you selfish. They will expect you not only to work for free but to feed those who have drained you dry.

Escape, they will say, is betrayal.

But the truth is simpler: you were never an employee. You were furniture—kept polished until you splintered.

And when you do, they will simply find another.