false spring – part 2
Everything ends with the soundless closing of tabs.
Monday 23rd November 2020
The Teams window was already open when Jack joined. Just two squares — Lisa from HR, and a man introduced only as Tom from Legal. Lisa’s background was blurred. Tom’s camera stayed off.
“Hi Jack,” Lisa said. “Thanks for making the time.”
He nodded. Smiled, reflexively, though no one mirrored it. He hadn’t been told what the meeting was about. The pit of his stomach had begun to sink even before the call connected, and now it was heavy and low, as if weighted with water.
Lisa took a breath. “A concern’s been raised following a virtual social on Friday.”
Jack blinked. “Sorry?”
“You made a comment during the call that caused alarm and distress to one or more colleagues.”
She was reading from something. Almost word for word. Jack felt his skin flush, a quick heat rising up the back of his neck.
“I don’t — I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lisa looked down for a moment. “It has been reported that during the virtual social you said you were ‘completely naked from the hips down.’”
“Oh.”
He gave a short laugh. It came out wrong. “It was a joke. I mean, it was a... you know, like the memes? Everyone jokes about that. That’s all it was. Everyone was joking about joggers on the bingo card.”
Lisa was quiet. “I understand that may have been your intention. But we have to consider how comments may impact upon people, especially in a professional environment.”
Jack nodded, but it felt more like a tick, not something he was in control of.
Tom spoke then, voice flat. “Given the nature of the remark and the setting, the comment has been classified under our code of conduct as potential sexual harassment. The company has a zero-tolerance policy on this.”
Jack froze. The words hit hard — cold and clinical and final. Sexual harassment. He had never heard those words aimed at himself. That phrase made it feel almost criminal.
“I... I didn’t mean it like that,” he said eventually, voice tightening. “It was banter. Stupid banter. Not targeted. Just something people say.”
“There is a distinction,” Tom’s voice cut in, devoid of all inflection, “between company-facilitated activities and unsolicited personal remarks. The context is entirely different.”
It wasn’t a conversation. It was already a conclusion. Lisa took back over, more gently.
“We’ve reviewed this with senior leadership, and we’ll be ending your contract effective immediately. A package will be sent to your home address with instructions for returning company property.”
He didn’t speak. He felt, absurdly, like apologising again — but he wasn’t even sure for what. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears now, like the quiet before snowfall.
Lisa’s tone softened slightly. “If you’d like, I can stay on the call a little longer to answer any logistical questions.”
“No,” Jack said. “That’s okay.”
He ended the call himself.
It was still early — the light a insipid mid-morning grey — but it felt like the day had already happened without him.
The flat didn’t feel quiet — it felt hollow. The laptop screen still showed his reflection, faint in the black.
He reached for his phone, checked Slack. It had already logged him out. His inbox said his session had expired.
By the time he walked to the kitchen, there was already an email in his personal account titled “Notice of Termination.” He didn’t open it. He stood barefoot on the cold tiles, kettle boiling, but forgot what he’d meant to make.
A few hours later, a delivery slot confirmation arrived. Tuesday. Parcel pick-up.
That evening, he searched the company’s LinkedIn page. A new post: highlights from Friday’s social. A tiled screenshot from Zoom. Everyone grinning. He wasn’t in it.
He stared at the photo. When it had been taken. After he left? Or had they cropped him out?
For a moment he thought about messaging Mia — not to ask anything specific, just to send something that might anchor him. She was the one who had made the workdays feel warmer, the one who had made him feel like he was a person worth joking with.
It occurred to him now, sharply, that maybe he had misread all of it. Maybe he had mistaken politeness for connection. Affection for convenience. He didn’t want that to be true, but maybe it was.
He didn’t know if she’d reported him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be.
He paced the flat. Sat down. Stood again. He opened the fridge and stared at the contents: a wilting lettuce, a half-eaten jar of pickles. The smell of vinegar and old greens made something inside him dip. He closed it. No appetite, just a tightness in his chest, like he couldn’t quite take a full breath.
He opened the laptop again, watched the screen glow to life, then did nothing.
The weather outside had turned — a pale drizzle now clung to the window, fine and directionless.
He watched it, unmoving. The return box would arrive tomorrow.
He remembered the first day — the welcome video, the hope of it. The idea that something new was beginning.
Now, it had ended without touch, without voice, without ceremony. Just the closing of tabs.
He rose, then folded back into the chair. The air in the flat felt stale. He opened a window, felt the cold come in, then closed it again.
He opened his calendar out of habit. One last event hung there: “All Hands —December.” He didn’t delete it.
He just let it sit.
At one point, a thin, absurd thought crossed his mind — that if he could be deleted from a company so completely, so easily, maybe he could just delete himself a little too. Not in any real way, just... stop showing up. Stop logging in to his own life for a while. He pushed the thought away immediately, embarrassed by it.
Later, when the windows showed only the blurred glow of streetlamps, he replayed the call again. All of it. Not just the words he said, but the way he’d said them. The tone. The timing. The timing, especially. The way Mia’s camera had gone off. The way no one had followed up with him. Not even a message.
Not even a joke.
He’d thought they liked him. Not just tolerated him — liked him. He had felt seen in that job, possibly for the first time in years.
Now, he wasn’t even sure he’d been real to them.
Oh, poor Jack! How fragile is life; one day, all can seem rosy then, in the blink of an eye, everything can shatter into tiny pieces. How easily we can misinterpret how others will react to our comments and actions, even within a virtual reality, or maybe we're more susceptible to scrutiny when everything we do or say is recorded.
This story is so carefully crafted; from the very first sentence when just 'two squares' are open, with one camera off, the reader anticipates that there's trouble ahead. Lisa's pause and intake of breath before delivering the company's carefully scripted 'concern', delivered from a very objective stance, (as all good training on dealing with 'difficult conversations' recommends!), builds up the tension and anticipation of the bombshell to come, and how this will devastate Jack.
An emotional rollercoaster of a story! I do hope that a happy ending is in sight!
One again, great writing, Wayne - can't wait to see what happens next.
Wayne, Part 2 hit like the floor dropping out from under everything you set up in Part 1. You built all that soft belonging and then just… pulled the thread, clean and quiet. You’re dangerously good at writing the kind of collapse that looks small on the surface but leaves a bruise afterward.