Xiaoyu did not know when the change began.
There was no clear line she could trace, no single moment she could point to and say this is where it went wrong. Work simply became heavier, as if the air itself had thickened around her. Instructions grew stricter. Deadlines tightened. Expectations sharpened without explanation.
It all came from her direct supervisor, Manager He.
At first, Xiaoyu assumed it was normal.
She was new. Horizon Group was a top-tier company. Standards were naturally high. She reminded herself of this each morning as she sat straighter at her desk, as she reread emails twice before replying, as she checked her work until her eyes ached.
Still, the pressure did not ease.
"Redo this," Manager He said, sliding a file back across the desk without looking up.
Xiaoyu bowed her head. "Yes, Manager He."
Another time, a task assigned to her late in the afternoon came with an early-morning deadline. When she submitted it on time, she was told it lacked foresight. When she asked—carefully—what should be improved, the answer was vague.
"You should think more comprehensively," Manager He said. "This level won't do."
Xiaoyu nodded again.
She always nodded.
She worked harder.
She arrived earlier than most, the office still quiet, the lights above her desk casting a pale glow on her notebook. She stayed late, long after the chatter of colleagues faded and the cleaning staff made their rounds.
She believed effort was light.
That if she carried it steadily, it would guide her forward.
But light, she slowly learned, could become a burden when no one helped carry it.
Mistakes she hadn't made were quietly placed at her feet. A document misplaced during a team transfer somehow became her responsibility. A delayed approval—beyond her control—turned into a mark against her reliability.
The whispers followed soon after.
"I heard Manager He is dissatisfied with her."
"She looks hardworking, but maybe she's just slow."
"No wonder she keeps getting revisions."
Xiaoyu heard them in fragments—in the pantry, by the printer, drifting through cubicle walls. She never stopped to listen. Never turned around. She pretended not to notice the glances that lingered too long, the conversations that paused when she approached.
She told herself it would pass.
That misunderstandings always did.
Still, the loneliness crept in quietly.
Some colleagues began to distance themselves, their smiles polite but shallow. Invitations to lunch stopped coming. Conversations felt guarded, as if association with her carried risk.
Yet not everyone turned away.
Her senior, Zhang Rui, spoke up once during a meeting when blame was unfairly placed. "That part wasn't handled by Xiaoyu," he said evenly.
Another senior, Liu Wen, noticed her skipping lunch and placed a packed sandwich on her desk without comment.
Two new hires, Yingying and Bo Chen, often waited for her before heading to lunch. They didn't ask questions. They didn't offer empty reassurances. They simply stayed.
Their presence was small.
But it mattered.
Friday arrived with a quiet heaviness.
Xiaoyu had spent the entire week revising a report assigned through Manager He. Each version felt cleaner than the last. Each time she submitted it, it came back.
"This still isn't right."
She stood at Manager He's desk, hands folded, heart pounding softly. "May I ask which part needs adjustment?"
Manager He glanced at the document briefly. "Overall structure. You should redo it."
No explanation.
No guidance.
Xiaoyu bowed. "Understood."
She returned to her desk.
She skipped lunch again. The afternoon blurred into numbers and sentences that refused to settle. Her shoulders stiffened. Her wrists ached. She rewrote sections she had already rewritten, unsure whether she was fixing problems or creating new ones.
When she finally sent the revised file, her fingers were trembling.
No response came.
Evening settled over Horizon Group.
One by one, colleagues packed up. Laughter drifted toward the elevators. Someone talked about weekend plans. Someone else waved goodbye.
Xiaoyu remained seated.
When the clock passed seven, she finally stood. Her movements felt slow, disconnected, as if her body were moving through water. Instead of heading for the elevator, she turned toward the stairwell—seeking space, air, something quiet.
Halfway down, her vision blurred.
She stopped.
The silence pressed in from all sides.
The weight she had been carrying all week—effort, restraint, confusion—finally collapsed inward. Her breath caught sharply. She covered her mouth, but the sound slipped through anyway.
A sob.
Her knees weakened, and she sank onto the cold steps, clutching her bag to her chest. Tears spilled freely, soaking into her sleeves, blurring the harsh stairwell lights into streaks of white.
"I tried…" she whispered, voice trembling. "I really tried…"
She cried quietly at first, as if afraid of disturbing the building itself. Then harder, her shoulders shaking, her chest aching with every uneven breath. She cried for the misunderstandings she couldn't correct, for the effort no one seemed to see, for the light she had carried until it became unbearably heavy.
She did not know she was being watched.
Liang Wei had been working late.
When he finally left his office, he expected silence. Instead, he heard something fragile echoing through the stairwell—a sound that did not belong in the polished stillness of Horizon Group.
He followed it.
And stopped.
Xiaoyu sat on the steps, her composure completely gone. Tears streaked her face, her body curled inward, small against the concrete walls.
Liang Wei froze.
This was not a scene meant for him.
He had not spoken to her. Had not summoned her. Had not raised his voice or issued direct orders. And yet, standing there, he felt a weight settle heavily in his chest.
She cried without knowing he was there, her sobs restrained, as if even now she feared taking up too much space.
The light she carried—quiet, steady, unassuming—had not vanished.
It had simply been pressed down, burdened by unseen hands, until it could no longer hold itself together.
Liang Wei remained where he was.
For the first time, he did not move forward.
For the first time, he understood that light did not disappear because it was weak.
Sometimes, it broke because it had been forced to carry too much alone.