She asked in the hallway—

She asked in the hallway—

the supply room corridor, the fluorescent

light that flickers slightly—

the tone half a step lower,

the kind that means:

I've noticed something.

I said yeah, fine, thank you,

and something arrived in my chest

the way a train arrives—

the pressure first, then nothing.

I looked at the ceiling

for three seconds.

Not long enough to be a thing.

Long enough to let it settle.

She'd already gone back to her desk.

I stood under the flickering light

and felt the thing just—stay.

Not break. Not leave.

Just installed.

I walked to my desk.

I answered emails.

I said fine to two more people

before noon and each time

it cost something

I don't have a line item for.

By lunch it had settled somewhere

lower, less present.

By four it was just Tuesday.

I don't know what I would have said

if she'd asked a second time.

I don't know if the ceiling

would have been enough.