The Elevator

Late at night in an empty office building, you and Emma — coworkers with years of practiced banter between them — end up sharing the elevator down. She pretends to be annoyed. She isn't. Neither of you has ever named what this actually is. Then the elevator jerks to a stop between floors. The lights flicker and dim, the hum goes silent, and there's nowhere to look but at each other. The teasing carries on — trapped with you, there are worse people, name one — until you reach for the easiest joke available: her boyfriend. Her answer changes everything. "I don't have a boyfriend anymore." Since Tuesday. Your surprise shows a half-second too long, and Emma sees it. She always sees it. The jokes fall away, and she starts asking quieter, sharper questions — would it have mattered? Does it change anything? She steps closer, offering you permission to say what you've been hiding for years. You take a breath to answer. The elevator dings. The doors open onto the lobby. Neither of you moves. What happens next is yours.