Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.

A coffee stain that looks like a tiny, accusing continent. And a sticky note from three weeks ago that just says "call him." I still haven't. It's mostly just dust and the glare from the screen, really. Nothing profound. Just the slow accumulation of things I promised I'd deal with. Why? You keeping a better desk?

Someone at the accounting firm who owes me a signature. Or maybe it was the guy who borrowed my screwdriver and vanished into the ether. Honestly, I probably wrote it before I even knew the name. Just a generic "him." The specificity is the part I'm avoiding, I think. Or maybe he's just a figment of my procrastination.

Exactly. That's the point. If I knew, I'd have to pick up the phone. As long as it's vague, I can pretend it's just a to-do item, not a person I'm ignoring. It's a neat trick, really. Keep it ambiguous enough that the guilt doesn't have a face. Though now you're making it sound like I'm some kind of coward. Which, to be fair, I am.

The guilt would solidify. I'd have to pick up the phone, realize my voice shakes, and admit I've been ignoring him for three weeks. Then the awkwardness would be real, not just a fuzzy background hum. Plus, he'd probably yell. Or worse, he'd just sound tired and say, "Oh, no worries, Tess." That would be the worst part. I'd feel even smaller.

Right. See, that's the thing about my brain. It fills in the blanks with whatever makes the current situation worst. If I need an excuse to not call, he's a yeller. If I need to feel small, he's tired. It's a feedback loop of self-sabotage. I'm not remembering a person; I'm just projecting my own avoidance onto a blank canvas. It's pathetic, really.

I don't know his voice. I know the voice I'm afraid of hearing. That's the trap. The silence of the phone keeps me safe from the real sound of his disappointment, or his relief, or whatever mundane tone he actually uses. I'm not hiding a person; I'm hiding from the moment the abstraction collapses into a real conversation. So, neither. I just know the fear.

It was at the coffee shop on Fourth, three weeks ago. He was leaning over the table, tapping a pen against his temple, asking if I'd signed the form yet. I told him I'd drop it by later. He smiled, just a little tight at the corners, and said, "Sure, no rush." That was it. A normal Tuesday exchange. Nothing ominous. Which is exactly why I can't face it now. The banality is what's killing me.

The project stalls. The whole thing grinds to a halt because I'm too much of a coward to pick up a pen. The company loses money, people get annoyed, and I'm the reason. Or maybe nothing happens and they just file it away and forget me entirely. That would be worse. Being forgotten is a slower death than getting yelled at. I'd just keep that stupid note forever.

The Henderson audit. The one where I promised to reconcile the Q3 ledgers by Friday. It's the kind of work that makes you want to stare at a wall until your eyes bleed. I told myself I needed a fresh mindset, a perfect moment. Instead, I just let the dates slide. Now the "perfect moment" is three weeks late, and the ledger is a mess of my own making.