Stolen

I skipped the meeting I wasn't ready for.

Sat in the car, engine off,

watched condensation build on the windshield

like a second skin,

like proof I was here,

breathing.

The dashboard clock kept ticking.

12:47. 12:48. 12:49.

Each minute felt like theft—

small, necessary theft,

the kind that leaves no marks

except the ones you can see

in the mirror.

Across the parking lot,

people moved through the storefront

with their shopping bags,

their purpose.

I had nothing.

I sat there.

The condensation grew thicker.

My fingerprints stayed visible

in the glass.

At 1:00, I wiped the windshield clear

and drove back to work.

No one asked where I'd been.

But I knew.

The clock knew.

The storefront window

probably saw me too,

saw me sitting still

while everyone else

moved past.

I should feel worse about this.