The morning begins the same way it always does: the hum, the lights, the neat alignment of pens. Routine is my safety net; it catches me before the day can.
By nine-fifteen, I'm steady, moving through small tasks like footsteps across shallow water. Then the cursor freezes.
Once. Twice.The document refuses to save.
For a moment, I stare at the screen, waiting for it to obey. It doesn't. The blinking hourglass seems almost smug in its silence.
I stand, smoothing my skirt even though no one can see the panic in my posture. "Excuse me," I call softly through the open doorway. "The shared drive isn't responding."
My boss looks up from his monitor. His expression doesn't change, not even by a breath. "Which one?"
"All of them, I think."
He rises—unhurried, composed. "Call IT."
I do. Twice. Both calls drop into a hollow ring that never reaches a voice.
"They're not answering," I say.
He nods once. "Work offline. Use your backup."
"I have Tuesday's saved."
"That will do."
He begins reconstructing numbers from memory, fingers moving with quiet precision. Watching him, I feel something loosen in my chest. His calm spreads outward like a slow exhale I didn't realize I was holding.
I open my backup file and follow his rhythm, typing beside the sound of rain. The office becomes a metronome: tap, pause, tap. For a while, the only proof of chaos is the pulse in my throat.
The outage crawls through the floor. Screens blink, whispers start, the low buzz of unease thickens. Then his voice crosses the room:
"Save everything locally."
Everyone obeys.
Even I—already saving—feel steadier for hearing him say it aloud. His tone carries a quiet authority that feels almost protective.
He pauses beside my desk. "Status?"
"Eighty percent reconstructed."
"Good."
The word lands with weight, simple as gravity. I whisper, "Yes," though he's already walking away.
By noon, the system revives itself, bright and innocent, as if it never failed. Laughter breaks out in small bursts, relief disguised as humor.
He steps out of his office, report in hand. "You handled this well."
"I only followed your lead," I say, because it's true.
His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment. "That's why it worked."
The air feels warmer after he leaves, though I can't explain why.
I eat lunch at my desk. He's still working, and leaving feels wrong when he's here. The soup cools while I scroll through my phone.
@DearStranger: small glitch at work today. he stayed calm the whole time.
@ListeningEar: maybe you stayed calm because he did.
@DearStranger: maybe. i think i borrowed his calm and forgot to give it back.
I watch the dots appear and disappear before the next message arrives.
@ListeningEar: then maybe it was meant to be shared.
I lock the screen before I can smile.
By six, most of the office is dark. He's still at his desk, light spilling in a narrow band across the glass wall.
I collect the final reports and step inside quietly. "The documents are ready," I say.
He takes them without looking up. "Thank you. You can go."
I hesitate. "If you need me to stay—"
"That won't be necessary."
His tone is neither kind nor cold. It's final.
"Yes," I say, and start to leave.
Then, from behind me: "You did well today."
I stop, hands tightening around the folder I'm still holding. "Thank you," I manage, softer than I intend.
He doesn't reply, and I don't expect him to. Some words are meant to end in silence.
At home, the rain follows me—gentle, insistent. I pour tea, the same ritual every night, and watch the steam rise until it fades.
My phone buzzes once.
@ListeningEar: long day?
@DearStranger: yes. he said i did well.
@ListeningEar: does it matter that much?
@DearStranger: yes. it shouldn't. but it does.
I set the phone face-down and close my eyes. Some people build whole worlds out of quiet approval.
When I finally whisper "good night," it's to no one in particular—just to the part of me that still hears his voice when everything else goes still.