Apparently They Were Right

Seven months ago I said, in a room

with eight people in it,

that his approach was wrong.

I said it clearly.

I thought I had evidence.

He said: I hear you.

Which is what people say

when they've already decided.

Today: the notification.

New title. New role.

The exact thing I'd argued against

being done, now, by him,

confirmed.

Someone I know had already liked it.

The blue confetti.

His headshot—the one where everyone looks

like they've recently resolved something.

I held my thumb above the screen

longer than I needed to.

Not to like it.

Just held it there.

Here's what the loss taught me:

being right about the approach

is a different skill

from knowing when to say so.

I had the first one.

I was missing the second.

He had both, apparently—

or just the one that counted.

I put my phone down.

Made lunch.

The notification still there

when I came back.

Blue confetti.

His name.

The title underneath it.

The eight people in that room

somewhere right now,

having moved on

the way people move on

from a thing you did

that they were only passing through.