The Woman on the Fourth Floor

She smiled at me and I realized

I've never actually seen her face.

Just her jacket. Her briefcase. Her reflection

in the brushed steel doors at 8:15,

every third day, standing in the corner.

We've been in that box together—

the elevator, the same confined space—

going up, going down, pretending

we're paying separate bills to be ignored.

But today she looked at me

and smiled like she recognized someone.

I looked away.

By the time I thought to smile back,

the doors had already opened.

She was stepping out.

Her reflection was fading from the metal.

I was alone in the space between floors

where I'm always most comfortable—

moving but not arriving,

present but untouched.

I'll see her next week. Same time. Same box.

But something's different now.

She's seen me seeing her,

and I can't go back to the before.

We're something worse than strangers.

We're two people who could have been

and chose the silence instead.