Eli Grant was the kind of employee who made the office hum smoother just by walking in. He organized Secret Santa flawlessly, remembered everyone’s coffee order, and diffused tension with a well-timed joke or an empathetic nod. People said he was the glue—the friendly, ever-reliable glue.
So when the company’s annual 360-degree feedback reports landed, Eli skimmed his with a grin, expecting a love letter to his likability.
Instead, it felt like a dagger wrapped in a thank-you card.
- “Eli’s nice, but too nice—it’s hard to know what he really thinks.”
- “Feels like he’s always performing.”
- “Pleasant, but surface-level.”
- “Doesn’t stand up for himself. Or anything, really.”
The screen seemed to glow hotter. Eli blinked, rereading the lines. His jaw tightened. Too nice? Performing?
That night, he stayed late in the office, alone with the feedback and the hum of the vending machine. He opened a notebook and made a list—of everyone he worked with. Next to each name, he wrote a version of himself he imagined they wanted:
Marcus – decisive, no-nonsense.
Priya – open, emotionally honest.
Dev – competitive, sarcastic banter.
Jules – soft-spoken, patient.
The next day, Eli arrived early and began the transformation.
With Marcus, he interrupted more. He took bold stances in meetings, even when uncertain. Marcus started inviting him to strategic planning sessions. Win.
With Priya, he talked about his childhood, his therapy sessions, his fear of mediocrity. She cried once, then hugged him. Another win?
With Dev, it was office trash talk and aggressive brainstorming. Dev called him “a real one.” Jules appreciated his listening ear and calm presence. Every interaction was logged, adjusted, improved. Eli’s sticky notes became color-coded by personality type. His Google Calendar reminders included emotional tone settings.
But the seams were starting to split.
One afternoon, he walked past the break room, and caught a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear.
“Eli’s changed, yeah,” someone said. “But I don’t know. He’s like…everyone at once.”
Another voice chimed in, laughing: “Yeah. Which means he’s no one, really.”
That night, Eli stared into the mirrored glass of his apartment window, the city lights flickering like judgment. He could see them—reflections of himself, faint and overlapping. Eli the Leader. Eli the Empath. Eli the Bro. Eli the Monk.
They stared back at him.
They whispered over each other.
He started mixing them up—offering vulnerable confessions to Marcus, snapping back at Jules. Faces fell. Compliments turned to puzzled glances. And still, he couldn’t stop. He was addicted to approval, chasing it like a shifting mirage.
Then came the morning he didn’t get out of bed. He lay there, eyes open, listening to the chorus of his invented selves arguing over who should face the day.
He got up slowly. No sticky notes. No voice adjustments. Just jeans and a hoodie.
In the elevator, his reflection appeared—blurred by fingerprints and dust. There was only one of him now. He looked… tired.
But maybe, just maybe, honest.
That day, he said things people didn’t like. Disagreed openly. Let silences stretch. No performance. No applause.
Just Eli.
And as he left work, someone passed him by and said, “Hey, you seem different.”
He shrugged.
“Maybe I’m just done being everyone else.”
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