The report file sits open now, a blinking cursor waiting for input that doesn’t feel quite as heavy as before. The words form in my head not as rigid commands but as loose threads I’m trying to tie into the pattern. I type slowly at first, letting each sentence settle on the screen before hitting enter. *Q3 projections show a 12% variance.* I read it back, then delete it and retype: *There’s been a shift in Q3 numbers.* It feels more honest. Less like a statement of fact and more like an observation made by someone who is there.

A notification pings softly from my phone again, this time a text from Leo. The screen lights up with his name and I feel that old familiar tug in my chest—the urge to check it immediately, to see what’s wrong or right, to fix whatever he needs fixing before it becomes a problem. But the cursor is already moving, my fingers hovering over the keys instead of reaching into my pocket. I push the notification away mentally, tucking it under the desk where it will wait until I’m done with this thought.

“You okay?” the colleague asks, leaning back against her cubicle wall again, watching me type with that same easy curiosity.

“Just recalibrating,” I say without looking up. “Trying to find my rhythm.”

She nods, taking a sip from her mug. “Well, if it takes time, take it. No rush on the world ending because of one spreadsheet.” She gestures vaguely toward the rows of empty chairs in the distance where people are packing up for lunch breaks. “Besides, I bet the cafeteria’s got those new spicy chicken sandwiches today. Worth waiting a bit for.”

I look at her, really look at her—not as an obstacle or a variable to manage, but as another person navigating their own messy reality right here in this space. The gold sphere hums again, softer now, almost like a whisper. It feels less like an internal force and more like part of the room itself—the way the light hits the dust motes, the sound of the keyboard echoing against the glass walls, the rhythm of everyone breathing around me.

I finish typing my revised paragraph and save the file with a simple *Ctrl+S*. The computer whirs to life for a second as it writes everything to disk—a tiny mechanical action that feels profoundly real in this moment. Then I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes briefly while the room keeps spinning around me. The office doesn’t need fixing. Neither does anyone in it. We just exist here together, drifting through the currents of work and conversation, one imperfect second at a time.