After months without a job, I finally got an offer from my dream company. Excitement quickly turned to dread, though, when I saw who my new boss was—my old college rival, Tyler Wilson, the guy who’d made my college years miserable.
My roommate, Shanti, pushed me to open the acceptance email, and for a moment, I felt thrilled. But my stomach dropped when I read I’d be working under Tyler. On my first day, he ignored me and made a pointed comment about my tattoos, reminding me of his arrogant college self. Frustrations built as I emailed him about necessary equipment upgrades, but he ignored me—until I discovered he’d canceled my order. I decided to confront him directly, storming into his office, ready to quit if it meant dealing with his pettiness.
But then, I overheard him in a meeting, advocating for me and demanding my equipment order be approved. When I confronted him, Tyler admitted he’d been trying to shield me from biases in the company, and confessed he’d once had feelings for me but handled it poorly back in college. We laughed over the misunderstanding, and he asked me out to dinner as an apology. For the first time, I saw a side of Tyler I hadn’t expected, and it left me wondering—maybe, just maybe, people really could change.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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