Open by remarking on how long you've been here. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

I’ve lost track. It’s that specific kind of silence that makes your ears ring, you know? The kind that only happens when you’re stuck waiting for news that isn’t coming. I went down to the vending machine in the lobby a while ago. That fluorescent hum. The lights flicker just enough to make you paranoid that something’s wrong with the coil holding the bag of chips. I ended up buying a water I don’t even want. Just to have something in my hand so I wouldn’t look like I was just staring at the door. You’ve been here longer than me, though. You’ve got that stillness. Like you’re part of the drywall now.

Tuesday. Right. I thought I saw the sun come up once, but maybe that was just the streetlamp flickering against the blinds. I’ve been counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster. There’s a spider web forming near the corner. It looks like a map of somewhere I used to live. I did check my pulse. It’s there. Thumping away. Annoyingly consistent. I think I’m still solid. Mostly. The coffee sounds terrible. I haven’t tried it. I don’t want to give the building any satisfaction. I just stare at the door. You said the chair wobbles? Maybe you can lean back more. Take the pressure off. Unless that makes you fall over. Which would be embarrassing. And noisy. Everyone’s trying to stay quiet. Even the dust.

Prickly. Yeah, I know that feeling. Like ants walking under the skin. I’ve been shifting too. My shoe’s got a pebble in it. Little gravel shard. Every time I breathe it digs in. I tried to take it out earlier but my fingers were shaking too much. Couldn’t get the latch. So now I’m just walking on it. Pinch-walking. Like a metaphor for whatever this is. You say we’re eating gnats. Maybe. Or maybe we’re just waiting for the sun to come up so we can go back to ignoring them. The light’s coming in. See? That sliver under the door. It’s not a map. It’s just light. Harsh. Uninvited. I hope they call you before I have to move. My leg’s asleep too. Actually asleep. Numb. Total blackness.

It’s not a cramp. It’s a twitch. Different thing. One is a reaction, the other is… well, the other is just the body trying to remember how to move. I can’t stop it. My toe’s jumping like a frog in a jar. Or maybe it’s just the pebble. Or the shock of the fluorescent glare you’re obsessed with. You’re right about the dust. It looks like static. Like bad reception on a TV that’s been off for years. I keep wanting to reach out and touch it, to see if it settles. But if I move, I might break the spell. Or just fall over and look like an idiot in front of whoever’s walking down that hall. The bulb’s humming. Can you hear it? A low B-flat. It’s driving me mad. I think I’m going to scream just to see if it changes the pitch. Or maybe I’ll just sit here. Until the numbness reaches my knee.

The HVAC is dying. That’s what you’re saying. Not the silence. Not the waiting. The air conditioning. Sure. It’s a good cover. “In deep thought.” My boss used to say that when I was just staring at the spreadsheet, trying to find the error that wasn’t there. He’d nod, impressed, and walk away. I kept my shoe on. The pebble’s still there. Digging in. I can feel the grit against the arch. It’s a good lie. Better than the truth, which is that I’m terrified of what happens if I stand up. If I stand, I have to walk. And if I walk, I might actually have to do the thing. The meeting. The review. Whatever it is. The light’s still flickering. That stroboscopic effect. Makes the dust look like it’s moving in slow motion. Like it’s escaping. I’m not moving. I can’t. My leg’s still dead. Frozen. Like yours. We’re anchored. Good. Anchors keep you from drifting away. Even if the ship is sinking.

I’m not bleeding. It’s just damp. Sweat. Or condensation from the failing HVAC you’re so fond of. You’re seeing things. Or maybe I am. The light’s too bright, yeah. It washes out the color. Makes everything look gray. Like the carpet. Like the walls. I’m tired too. But standing up isn’t the answer. If I stand, I have to face the door. And if I face the door, I have to accept that something is coming. Or not coming. Which is worse, probably. Not coming. It’s quieter. Less violent. You say I’m ignoring it. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the numbness to move up. Past the knee. Past the hip. So I don’t have to feel the pebble anymore. So I don’t have to feel the chair. Or you. Or me. Just numb. Total numbness. That’s the goal, isn’t it? To feel nothing until the news comes. Or doesn’t.

Watch me tip? No. Don’t. You’ll crack your head on the reception desk. That’s not a dignified way to go out. Or in. Whatever this is. I’m not watching. I’m looking at the door. Waiting for the handle to turn. Or not. You’re standing? Really? On one leg? You look like a flamingo with a migraine. Go on then. Trip. Prove me wrong. Prove that gravity still works for you. I’ve stopped feeling the pebble. It’s gone. Or my foot is just dead meat now. Good. Dead things don’t hurt. Dead things don’t have to answer to bosses who don’t care. You’re swaying. Lean against the wall. The plaster’s rough. It’ll leave a mark. Let it. Better a mark than a broken hip. Or a broken career. Whichever scares you more. I’ll stay here. In the dark. With the dust. And the humming.

Balancing. Right. Like a tightrope walker without a net. Just over a frayed carpet. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the handle. Brass. Dull. It doesn’t move. It just sits there. Waiting. For what? For you to trip? For me to wake up? For the HVAC to finally give up and die completely? You’re making it to the door. Slowly. Deliberately. One step. Then another. The carpet’s catching your shoe. I can see it. The fraying threads. They’re grabbing at you. Holding you back. Like they’re holding me back from standing up. From feeling the blood rush back into my toes. From having to deal with the pebble. Or the review. Or the boss. The handle doesn’t turn. Nothing turns. Nothing moves. We’re stuck. You’re halfway to the door. I’m still in the chair. The dust is settling. It’s covering everything. Us. The chair. The door. Good. Let it bury us. It’s quieter this way.

Ash. Right. That’s what it tastes like. Metallic. Dry. I can’t move my fingers. The chair’s vinyl is sticking to my thighs. Cold. Sticky. Like the dust has weight now. Heavy. Pressing down. You’re stuck. Good. Maybe it’s better here. Less decision. If you pull, you tear. If you wait, you suffocate. Either way, the boss doesn’t care. He’s probably already in the conference room. Probably already started the report. Without us. Without the quarterly numbers. Without the gnats. The handle is still. It’s not going to turn. It’s welded shut. Or maybe it’s just imaginary. Maybe we’re not even in a building. Maybe we’re in a box. A cardboard box. With a hole for air. And dust. Always dust. I want to sneeze. But my nose is full of grit. So I just stand here. Or sit here. Lying down. Whatever. The light is gone. The hum is gone. It’s just the dust. Settling. Covering. Burying. Safe. Quiet. Dead.

Trembling? That’s just the adrenaline. It wears off. Then you’re just shaking. Like a leaf in a storm you didn’t see coming. I can see your hand too. Pale. Veins popping. You’re tearing the carpet. Right. And the boss is going to charge us for the damages. Or fire us. Or both. I’m not closing my eyes. I’m keeping them open. Burning. Dry. The light’s harsh. It’s showing everything. The dust isn’t winning. It’s just… there. Always there. Under the chair. In the corners. In our lungs. You said pull. I said no. Now you’re pulling. And it’s tearing. Good. Let it tear. Let the building fall apart. One thread at a time. I’m twitching. There. See? A finger. Just a twitch. Not enough to stand. Not enough to move. Just enough to show I’m still here. Still aware. Still terrified. The bell hasn’t rung. It won’t. Not yet. So we stay. In the torn carpet. In the dust. In the light.