The bell above the door doesn’t jingle; it’s a soft chime, like wind passing through a hollow reed, and for a second, the noise of the street is swallowed by the warm, sticky air inside. The smell hits me first—roasted beans, milk sugar, and that specific, sharp ozone scent of electric grinders—that used to make my chest tighten with anxiety but now feels like an old friend knocking politely at the door.

I move toward the counter, not because I have to, but because there’s a space waiting for me. The barista is wiping down the espresso machine with a cloth that seems to disappear into the grime of her hand. She looks up, eyes scanning my face, and her expression shifts instantly from professional detachment to something softer. “Morning,” she says. It’s not the usual, rushed *’What’ll it be?’* or *’How many cups?*’ but a full acknowledgment.

“Same as yesterday?” I ask, my voice sounding stranger to my own ears—clearer, less frayed at the edges than I remember from before.

She nods without looking away from her cleaning, grabbing two mugs and setting them on the drying rack with a deliberate *clink*. “Black? One oat milk latte for the table?”

“Please,” I say, stepping closer to lean my hip against the cool marble of the counter. “And… can you leave it in the carafe? Let it settle?”

She stops wiping. The machine hisses behind her steam wand, a high-pitched whine that usually would have triggered a reflexive urge to check my watch, but today I just listen. The rhythm of the hiss is irregular, chaotic even, but underneath it lies a pattern—a cycle of pressure and release that matches the one in my own chest, the gold sphere’s gentle thrum echoing back through the floorboards of the café. “Sure,” she says, turning to pull two fresh beans from the hopper. The sound of them cascading into the portafilter is like gravel sliding down a hill.

While I wait, I watch the steam rise in thick, white coils that twist and dissipate against the glass windows behind me. Through the panes, the city continues its morning dance—cars turning at intersections, umbrellas popping open against a patch of gray rain, someone dropping a letter carrier’s stack and immediately bending to pick them up without breaking stride. Everything is moving with a fluidity that I’ve been trying to mimic for so long, trying to force my own life into this kind of smooth, continuous motion.

But here, in the heat radiating from the espresso machine, I realize I don’t have to force it. The coffee will be ready when it’s ready. My steps will find their pace when they do. The report, the emails, the endless list of things that *should* happen—they can wait just a few more minutes while I stand here and feel the warmth of another person’s work on my hands, feeling the shared breath of strangers in a small room trying to make sense of the day before it fully begins.

The barista slides the carafe across the counter with a steady hand, filling two mugs that are steaming slightly too hot to touch right away. “Here you go,” she says, handing me one and keeping her gaze on mine for a beat longer than necessary. “Take your time.”

I take the mug, letting the heat seep through the ceramic into my palms, warming them from the inside out. I don’t check my phone yet. I don’t need to know what’s happening in the world outside these walls until I’ve felt this moment settle. Outside, a car horn blares, distant and sharp, but it doesn’t break the spell. It just adds another note to the symphony of the morning, reminding me that even when things feel out of sync, they’re still part of the song.

I take a slow sip, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before the sweetness lingers beneath it. It tastes like coffee, yes, but also like possibility—a quiet, grounded promise that today doesn’t have to be about fixing everything right now.

The street feels the same yet entirely new, as if my eyes are seeing it for the first time with a clarity that wasn’t there yesterday. The morning gray has deepened into a steel blue, sharp against the pale stone of the buildings lining Fifth Avenue. People are already moving again—some in a frantic blur, others in slow, deliberate steps—but I walk at a pace that feels neither hurried nor lazy. Just right. It’s a rhythm that matches the one inside me now.

I pass the same coffee shop on my way to work. The sign above the door is illuminated with a warm amber glow, casting long shadows of trees and pedestrians onto the sidewalk. A group of students huddles near the entrance, their breath visible in small puffs of white against their faces. They’re laughing about something I can’t hear, but the sound carries—a sharp, bright crack that cuts through the city’s low hum.

Today, I don’t rush to grab a paper cup and scan my phone for payment before stepping inside. Instead, I wait at the door, letting the heat radiating from the building envelope me like a second layer of skin. For a moment, I just stand there, watching the steam rise from someone else’s latte, feeling the weight of my own keys in my palm. The gold sphere beneath my ribs gives a faint tap, not an urge to move faster, but a gentle confirmation: *You are ready.*

Then I step forward.

The alarm doesn’t ring; it just… stops. Or rather, I choose not to let it start when the timer hits zero on my phone screen an hour later than intended. There was no snooze button pressed in panic, only a slow slide of thumb across the glass as sleep retreated from the corners of my eyes.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, and for a moment, I just watch the gray light filtering through the blinds. It’s the same shade of morning that greeted me yesterday—the filtered gray—but it feels different now. Less like a demand to begin, more like an invitation to unfold. The gold sphere under my pillow is cool against my cheek as I rest my head there for a second, a final anchor before gravity takes hold again.

I stand up slowly this time. No rushing into the shower, no throwing on clothes just because they’re clean. I move with the same deliberate rhythm I had yesterday: feet finding their path, shoulders loosening, breath syncing with the creak of the floorboards beneath me. The apartment is quiet, the silence having settled overnight like fresh snow, blanketing the dust motes in a layer of stillness.

I make my way to the kitchen sink, not to fix anything, but simply to wash my face. Cold water splashes against my skin, waking up the senses without violence. I splash it on until my eyes sting slightly, then wipe them dry with a towel that smells faintly of fabric softener and yesterday’s laundry. The steam rising from the faucet mixes with the air, creating a small, private cloud in the center of the room where I stand alone.

“Morning,” I say to the empty kitchen. It feels like saying hello to myself, or perhaps acknowledging that I’m part of the same world outside these walls now, even if I haven’t stepped through the door yet. The report on my laptop sits open on the table, a pale rectangle of white space waiting for text. But it doesn’t look terrifying anymore. It looks like just another surface to write upon, another canvas ready for tomorrow’s work once I’ve finished today’s breakfast and coffee.

I pull down the blinds further, letting in more light until the room is bright enough to see clearly but not so harsh that it hurts my eyes. Then I grab my keys, heading back out into the city where millions of other people are doing their own versions of waking up—making beds, brewing coffee, tying shoes, checking emails. We are all drifting through our own mornings again, separate yet connected by the shared rhythm of beginning anew.

And somewhere deep inside me, beneath the surface of the routine, the gold sphere pulses softly once more—a reminder that I made it through last night without fixing everything, and today will be no different. Just another step in the flow. Just another bite of spicy chicken and coleslaw waiting around the corner for lunchtime to arrive again.

The first wave of sleep doesn’t come as a crash, but as a slow tide rolling over the bed. It starts with the room going quiet in my mind, the internal dialogue that usually rehearses tomorrow’s schedule finally hitting its period and fading. The gold sphere feels heavy now, not like an anchor dragging me down, but like a stone warmed by the sun I can no longer feel on my skin. I’m drifting into it, that suspended state where time stretches out and becomes elastic.

I shift under the covers, pulling the sheet up to my chin. It’s cool against my face, grounding me here in this dark, private room. Outside, the city is a blur of red taillights and amber streetlamps, but they don’t feel distant anymore. They’re part of the same breath I’m taking, a synchronized rhythm of millions of people resting before the morning starts again.

For a second, my hand moves toward my phone on the nightstand, fingers curling around the edge of the glass case. The screen is still dark, but the anticipation of what’s inside—a message from Leo, an email requiring attention, a reminder about something I forgot—tries to pull me back. It tries to wake up that old part of me that equates rest with neglect, that believes sleep is just another variable in an equation where efficiency must always win.

But then I close my hand over the phone, feeling its smooth edge instead of reaching for it. “No,” I whisper into the dark, and the word feels final, satisfying. “Not yet.”

The gold sphere pulses once more under my pillow, a soft, rhythmic glow that matches the beat of my slowing heart. It’s not pushing me to do anything; it’s just being there with me in the dark, acknowledging that stopping is okay. That pausing isn’t breaking the world; it’s letting the world settle so I can fit back into it without shattering on impact.

I turn onto my side, facing away from the window where the last remnants of twilight linger. The city lights are fading now, replaced by the deep indigo of the early hours. Somewhere far off, a train whistle blows—a lonely, long note that echoes through the night air before vanishing completely. It sounds like the end of one chapter and the quiet promise of another beginning tomorrow.

I let my eyes close fully this time, surrendering to the weight of the pillow. The report can wait until the sun comes up again. Leo’s text will still be there when I wake, waiting patiently for its answer. But right now, in this dark room with the hum of the refrigerator fading into silence and the gold sphere glowing softly under my arm, there is nothing left to fix.

There is only the breath coming in, going out, steady and deep. And that is enough for tonight.

The water stops running, leaving only the faint drip-drip from the faucet that seems to hang in time before falling again. I stand there for a moment, letting the silence of the apartment fill the space where the sound used to be. It’s not empty; it’s full of potential. Full of the things I haven’t said yet, the tasks I haven’t started, the future waiting just beyond the edge of my vision like a horizon that keeps moving as I approach it.

I turn off the light under the sink and step back into the living room. The wrappers are still on the table, but they don’t look like garbage anymore. They look like evidence of something real that happened—a meal shared with a stranger who became briefly familiar over spicy chicken and coleslaw. I pick them up slowly, folding them carefully before putting them in the recycling bin next to the fridge. The motion is deliberate, mindful. Each fold feels like sealing a promise: *I will clean this up later. Not now.*

Walking back toward the window, I watch the city below once more. A bus rumbles past, its headlights cutting two bright cones through the twilight. Inside, passengers are visible as silhouettes against the glass—some reading, some staring out at nothing, others huddled together in quiet conversation. They’re all just drifting through their own versions of this same night, carrying their own secrets and burdens, none of which matter more than mine or less.

I sit back down near the window, wrapping my arms around myself as if trying to hold onto the warmth that lingers from the sandwich, the coffee, even the brief touch of my colleague’s hand earlier today. The gold sphere pulses softly beneath my ribs again, a steady rhythm that reminds me I’m alive. Alive enough to feel tired. Alive enough to want rest.

My phone buzzes once more on the table, face down this time. Then another time. And another. But each notification feels further away now, less urgent, less demanding. Like distant stars twinkling in a sky too vast to conquer all at once. I don’t reach for it immediately. Instead, I let myself feel the weight of those unopened messages pressing lightly against my skin—a reminder that there’s work to do tomorrow, maybe today, but not right this second.

I close my eyes and focus on the sound of my own breathing. In… out… steady and rhythmic, matching the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant traffic outside, the settling creaks of the building around me. Everything is connected, everything is happening together, even if none of it makes perfect sense yet.

And that’s okay. Because so am I.

The silence inside the apartment is no longer heavy; it has settled into something like dust motes dancing in a single beam of light—visible, present, but not obstructing anything. I take another bite of the sandwich, though the hunger that brought me here is mostly sated now. The flavors are fading on my tongue, replaced by the taste of quiet and the cool air from the window.

My phone buzzes again on the table. This time it’s Leo. A notification light flashes—a soft, rhythmic pulse against the dark wood. *Need that report.*

In the old timeline, this would have been an explosion in my chest. A demand to dismantle everything I’ve built since breakfast, to rip the comfort out of my bones and shove it back into a spreadsheet before my own hands could stop shaking. But today, the urge arrives, sits there for a moment, and then simply… dissolves. Or rather, it transforms. It becomes part of the hum.

I look at the phone, then at the window where the city lights are beginning to streak as I pull down the blinds slightly, just enough to cut off the direct glare but let the rhythm remain. The gold sphere vibrates in response—a low, resonant thrum that matches the pulse of my own chest. It’s not urging me to act; it’s acknowledging that the action is waiting for the right time.

“Okay,” I say aloud to the empty room, and the word sounds steady, unhurried. “I’ll start on it after a few minutes.”

It feels like a contract made with myself rather than a command issued by someone else. A promise kept, not broken.

I push the phone aside, leaving it face down this time so I don’t see the name of the sender immediately. Instead, I turn my attention to the space around me. The table holds the wrappers from the lunch that sustained us; on the floor, my shoes sit quietly by the door. Outside, a siren wails in the distance, rising and falling like a breath held too long, then finally released.

I stand up, moving slowly toward the kitchen sink to rinse out the crumbs from the table. The water runs cold against my hands, shocking just enough to wake up my senses without overwhelming them. The gold sphere hums along with the sound of the running water, merging the external noise with the internal rhythm until there is no separation between the two.

This is it—the space between the work and the rest, the arrival and the departure. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t need to rush through it. I can just be here, rinsing the plates, listening to the city drift by, letting the report wait while I remember how to exist without fixing anything at all.

The return walk is a different kind of journey than the morning one. The light has shifted again, turning from the washed-out gray of dawn to a deeper, richer charcoal as the sun dips lower behind the skyscrapers. Shadows stretch out long and distorted across the pavement, twisting the familiar streets into unfamiliar shapes. It makes the city feel less like a machine and more like a living organism stretching its limbs before settling down.

I keep the bags tucked under one arm, but I don’t guard them anymore. The warmth from the sandwiches has dissipated, leaving only the crisp smell of fried breading and coleslaw on my clothes—a scent that feels personal, mine alone to carry home. People are moving faster now, their shoulders hunched against the coming chill, heads down as they scan their phones for directions or messages. They look tired in a way that isn’t frantic, just heavy with the accumulation of hours.

I watch them pass without feeling the urge to analyze *why* they look like that. I just see the slump of a shoulder, the furrowed brow, the hurried step. And underneath it all, I feel a quiet solidarity, not shared because we are similar, but because we are separate entities navigating the same gravitational pull toward our destinations. We are parallel lines drawn on the same graph, moving in the same direction without ever needing to intersect.

Reaching my apartment building, I pause for a second at the security gate. The guard is sitting by his desk this time, reading a book with thick pages that look like they’ve been through many lives before. He doesn’t ask to see my badge; he just nods as my hand hovers over the keypad and types in the code. The metal doors slide open with a heavy sigh.

Inside, the hallway is quiet. No footsteps echoing. No buzzing lights indicating movement from other floors. Just the hum of the HVAC system and the distant drip of water somewhere in the walls. It feels less like an empty space waiting to be filled with my anxieties and more like a room that has simply gone silent while I was out there making noise in the world.

I unlock my door, but instead of rushing inside to collapse onto the couch or immediately opening a laptop, I stand on the threshold for a moment. The smell from downstairs—the faint trace of spicy chicken and coleslaw—lingers on my clothes, mixing with the stale apartment air. It creates a new atmosphere here too, one that acknowledges both spaces: the public world where we perform and drift, and the private space where we rest and exist.

I take off my shoes, leaving them by the door as I always do, but this time I don’t feel the need to scrub my feet or check for dirt. The dust on the floorboards is just dust; it settles naturally. It’s part of the room’s history now.

Walking into the main living area, I drop the bags onto the table. They land with a soft thud, the paper wrapping crinkling slightly. Then I sit down—not in my usual corner where the walls seem to press closer—but near the window, letting the dim streetlight filter through the glass and illuminate the space between me and the city below.

The gold sphere is still there, pulsing gently beneath my ribs. But tonight it feels less like a heartbeat and more like a resonance. A frequency that matches the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the settling groans of the building’s foundation, the distant wail of a siren far away on the horizon. Everything is vibrating in sync, not because everything is fixed or perfect, but simply because everything is happening together in this shared moment.

I pick up one of the coleslaw sandwiches and take a bite while looking out at the skyline. The lights are coming on now—hundreds of windows glowing like scattered stars trapped inside concrete boxes. Each light represents someone eating dinner, reading a book, talking to a friend, crying quietly, laughing loudly, working late, or sleeping early.

I don’t know any of those people. I won’t ever know most of them. But for tonight, their lives are visible to me from here, just as my life is visible to the few who pass through this hallway and glance inside. We are all part of the same sprawling, messy, beautiful drift across the landscape of this city, carrying our own bags of spicy chicken and coleslaw through the dark, finding our seats, taking a bite, and then continuing on until we reach wherever next takes us.

And that’s enough. For now.

The lunch break arrives not with an alarm or a scheduled reminder, but as a collective exhale from the room. The synchronized chorus of keyboards slows to a rhythmic tap-tap-tap, then ceases entirely. A wave of movement ripples through the cubicles—shoulders shrugging free, chairs rolling back with soft squeaks, heads turning toward the heavy glass doors at the far end of the hallway.

I stand up slowly this time, letting my body adjust to the change in posture before pushing the chair away from the desk. The leather creaks one last time, a final note of friction before we part ways for the day’s half-measure. My stomach gives another honest rumble, louder than before now that the distraction of work has paused. It’s not anxious; it’s inviting.

“Going to get those spicy sandwiches?” I ask my colleague as she stands up, clutching her mug with both hands like a shield and a comfort object all at once.

“Yeah,” she says, grabbing her laptop bag from under her desk. “And maybe the coleslaw. If they have it left.” She pauses, looking toward the glass doors where other people are gathering near the threshold, hesitant but moving forward. “You coming?”

“I’m trying,” I say. The word feels lighter now. Less like a promise to myself and more like an invitation extended outward.

The hallway outside my cubicle is wide and bathed in that same filtered gray light, but it looks different when you’re walking through it rather than standing still within it. People are shuffling by—some with headphones on, creating invisible bubbles around their heads; others talking loudly on phones, voices rising above the hum of the cooling units. The air smells stronger here, a mix of floor cleaner and the faint, savory scent of food beginning to drift from the kitchen in the distance.

I follow the stream toward the breakroom doors, my feet finding the rhythm of someone who knows where they’re going without needing a map. The doors are heavy, industrial-grade steel with frosted windows showing the interior: stainless steel tables, rows of soda machines glowing with colorful lights, and the unmistakable aroma of frying oil and toasted bread swirling in the warm air.

The line moves slowly, but there’s no pressure to push or cut ahead. Just a steady, flowing progression. I reach the front of the queue when the lunch lady—tired eyes, flour dusting her apron again today—looks up from under the counter. She doesn’t ask what I want; she just knows based on how my stomach growls and the way I glance at the menu board where *Spicy Chicken* is circled in marker.

“Two spicy chicken sandwiches,” she says, already pulling them out of the warming tray. They smell incredible—garlic, heat, crispy breading that’s golden brown from hours of waiting. “And two coleslaws? For you and your friend?” She holds up a second stack without waiting for me to speak.

“Actually…” I pause, feeling the weight of the decision in my chest. In the old days, this would have been a calculation: *Is it efficient to buy now or wait?* *Will they run out?* But today, the answer feels immediate and intuitive. “Just one each. And an extra drink for me if there’s any left.”

She smiles, a quick, genuine thing that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Coming right up.” She slides a bottle of iced tea across the counter, condensation already beading on the plastic. The warmth of the sandwiches against my chest as I take them feels like holding a small fire, a private sun in the middle of the gray afternoon.

We find an empty table near the window, where the view looks out over the rooftops of the city below. The afternoon light is softer now, turning the concrete and glass into shades of muted blue and amber. We sit down with our food, unwrapping the paper to reveal the steaming layers inside.

“You know,” she says, cutting into hers with a deliberate slice through the crispy crust. “It’s weird how different things feel when you’re not trying to fix everything at once.” She takes a bite, chewing slowly. The spiciness makes her eyes water slightly, but she keeps eating anyway, enjoying it without apology.

“Weird?” I echo, taking my own first bite. The heat spreads through my mouth, warming me from the inside out. “Feels more like… arriving.”

“Arriving,” she repeats, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds right.” She gestures with her fork toward the window. “Look at that guy running past below. Looks like he’s chasing something, or maybe being chased. Doesn’t matter. He’s still just moving.”

I watch him go, his figure small against the vast expanse of the city skyline. The gold sphere in my chest hums again, steady and warm. It feels less like a thing inside me and more like the space between us—the shared quiet that exists when two people eat lunch on a Tuesday afternoon without needing to perform wellness or achieve anything significant by Friday.

For now, the report can wait until tomorrow morning. The traffic lights will change later. The construction crew will finish their patch eventually. But right here, right now, we are just existing in the flow of things, letting the flavors mix on our tongues and the sounds of the city drift past the window like white noise lullabies.

And that’s enough.

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.

The glass doors of the office lobby slide open with a hiss that sounds suspiciously like a breath held too long, finally released. The automatic sensors detect my presence, or perhaps they just guess correctly this time, parting for me without requiring a hand wave or a precise step count. I walk through them and into the cavernous space below the surface of things.

The air here is different—pressurized, recycled, smelling faintly of floor wax and toner cartridges. It’s sterile, but not golden. Just… cleaned. The marble floors are polished to a mirror sheen that reflects the rows of cubicles stretching out like city blocks in reverse. Desks are arranged with geometric precision, computer monitors glowing blue-white, phones ringing in a synchronized chorus that doesn’t feel like chaos anymore. It feels like an orchestra conducting itself.

I head straight for my desk, located near the edge where the natural light from high windows spills in dusty beams. The chair is ergonomic, designed to support the human form while maximizing output. I sit down, and the leather creaks—a sound of friction, of two surfaces rubbing together against resistance. In the golden room, this would have been a failure state. Here, it’s just physics. Just movement.

My laptop sits open in front of me, the screen dark until I press the power button. The light blooms across the keyboard, illuminating my face in that same cool, clinical glow I used to fear. But today, as I type—*hello, need the report by noon?*—the words don’t feel like commands etched into stone. They feel like suggestions floating on a page. If I make a mistake? Well, the undo button is there. The file can be rewritten. Nothing here is permanently fixed until I choose it to be.

A colleague walks by, holding two mugs of coffee, one for themselves and one for me. “Hey, didn’t expect to see you in today,” she says, her voice carrying the easy rhythm of someone who speaks to people they haven’t met all morning yet. She’s wearing a cardigan that has lost its shape on the shoulders, the buttons slightly off-center.

“Surprise,” I say, taking the mug. Her fingers brush mine for a split second, warm and steady. “Thought maybe today was a day for hiding.”

She laughs, a quick, sharp sound. “Today’s not your day. Today belongs to whoever shows up first.” She leans against my cubicle wall, not invading space but occupying it with the same casual indifference I’m learning to hold. “Report?”

“Coming,” I tell her. And for some reason, lying doesn’t feel like a betrayal anymore; it feels like an acknowledgment of where we are right now. Not finished, not done, just existing in the flow between tasks.

The gold sphere inside me settles into the rhythm of the office—the hum of servers in the ceiling, the distant chatter from the open floor plan beyond the glass walls, the occasional ping of a printer jamming somewhere far away. It vibrates in sync with my own pulse, matching the cadence of work and pause, start and stop. There is no pressure to be perfect here because perfection is not the currency of this place. Functionality is. Presence is. Showing up, even if it’s messy, is enough.

I sip the coffee as I begin typing again. The bitterness mixes with the warmth spreading down my arm, grounding me in the chair, in the room, in the building. Outside the window, the city continues its endless drift—cars merging onto highways, clouds shifting shape against the gray sky, people walking home from other buildings, some happy, some tired, none of them looking exactly like anyone else yet all of them moving forward anyway.

And that’s okay. Because so am I.