I trained him eight months ago, and then his unlocked screen showed me the number: he makes $31,000 more than I do.

PART 1

Greg got up to go to the bathroom and left his screen unlocked. Normal. People do this. I don’t care. But he left a PDF open and it was zoomed to like 400%. I have never once looked at his screen on purpose. I want to make that clear because what happened was entirely an accident and also entirely his fault.

The burnt-coffee smell from the office Keurig hit me then, bitter and metallic, the same smell I’ve been breathing for two weeks straight without noticing until this exact moment. The number was right there in 36-point font: $96,500. Annual salary. His name at the top of the page.

I make $65,000.

I trained the man who makes thirty-one thousand dollars more than me.

He came back from the bathroom carrying one of those little stroopwafel cookies, the kind he brings every Friday. Offered me half. I smiled. I took it. It was delicious. That makes it worse somehow.

I didn’t say anything. Not that day. Not the next. I went home and opened a spreadsheet—Google Sheets, cloud-saved, password-protected even though nobody would ever want to look at it—and I named it Greg Data. I calculated the hourly. I am losing $14.90 of relative value every hour I sit next to Greg.

Like two people on the same bus except he’s in first class and I’m sitting on the wheel.

I trained him eight months ago. He’d come from a different industry, good resume but no institutional knowledge, no client relationships, no understanding of our systems. I walked him through everything. Patient. Thorough. He learned fast, I’ll give him that. He thanked me three times in the first week.

Now I track it. Days. Hours. The compounding loss.

We’re at $6,100 since I found out. Fourteen working days.

I’ll stop tracking it when I get a raise or when I lose my mind, and honestly at this point it’s a coin flip.

PART 2

Greg’s keyboard clicks carry across the desk divider. Steady and confident, a rhythm I used to find comforting and now count like a metronome of inequity. Click click click. Fourteen-ninety. Click click. Fourteen-ninety. I used to think we worked at the same pace. Now I know we work at the same pace for completely different compensation.

He asks me a question about the Hastings account. I answer it. I answer it the way I always do—clearly, completely, because I am good at my job. The worst part is Greg is good at his job too. He’s not some failson coasting on nepotism. He does the work. He does it well. He’s pleasant. He brings stroopwafels.

I accepted one today while calculating that each cookie represents roughly two hours of the wage gap. The sweetness sat heavy in my mouth, caramel and cinnamon and the exact taste of my own silence.

I have worked here for six years. Greg has worked here for eight months. I have never asked for a raise. I have never made a fuss. I assumed competence and reliability would be noticed. I assumed someone was paying attention.

Diane, our manager, sent an email this morning about “team culture” and “supporting each other’s growth.” She cc’d the whole department. I stared at Greg’s name in the recipient list and wondered if she knows. Of course she knows. She approved his offer letter. She’s known the whole time.

I opened Greg Data during lunch. Added today’s hours. The running total is now $6,695.20. That’s the amount of value I have lost by sitting quietly at this desk, doing excellent work, and never once asking if I’m paid what I’m worth.

Priya from Accounting looked at me in the break room today. Just looked. I was microwaving leftovers and she was refilling her water bottle and our eyes met for half a second too long. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then didn’t. I wonder what she was going to ask.

I wonder what my face looks like now when I think no one is watching.

I bought Greg a gift last week. Before I knew. A book he’d mentioned wanting. Twenty-eight dollars. I had to check my account balance first, the way I always do, the way I’ve done for six years, because I only make $65,000 and this city is expensive and I have student loans.

I bought him a gift with my lesser salary and he said thank you and I said of course and neither of us knew that I’d trained him and he makes thirty-one thousand dollars more than me.