The Mute

I've been smiling for ninety minutes

with my camera pointed at my face

and my breathing getting smaller

with each minute that passes.

By minute sixty, I stop breathing

the normal way. Start breathing

like someone who's trying not to be heard,

not to take up air.

My cursor hovers over the pause button.

I don't click. If I don't click,

it doesn't mean I want to.

My manager talks about quarterly goals.

I'm thinking about the difference between

disappearing and dying. They're not the same.

I know this now.

I don't want to stop existing.

I want to stop existing here—

in this frame, in this room,

in this version of myself

that's been performing competence

for an hour and a half.

When the call ends, I'll turn off the camera

and my face will go back to being mine.

But right now, I'm hovering.

Not clicking. Just hovering.

Just this: a shape on a screen

that's almost not there.