“So, how was the office today?” she asked.
A question so routine, it barely registers anymore. And, as always, I offered the reflexive shrug of a response: “Nothing much.” That answer has become muscle memory; well-worn, familiar, like that bottom right corner in that shoe rack, where my shoes invariably end up. But beneath it, there's something else. Not boredom exactly. Not fatigue. Just... stillness. The kind that doesn’t stir unless you ask it to.
I often wonder if she notices. That pause between her question and my answer, the breath I take before choosing not to say anything real. She must. Maybe she’s stopped expecting me to colour in the blanks. Maybe she’s decided it’s enough to ask and let me come as I am.
Still, sometimes I want to say it all. That the office is just a stretch of hours wrapped around two tea breaks, where I sit in front of an Excel sheet that blinks at me like it knows I’m not really here. That I nod in meetings where nobody’s really disagreeing, just rearranging the same safe words in new formats. That I walk past glass cabins and smell cold air-conditioning and tired ambition. That every now and then, I ask myself what the hell I’m building, and the answer comes back like a polite cough; “Continuity.”
And yet, I say “nothing much.” Maybe because saying it all feels too dramatic. Or maybe because if I spoke about the dullness with too much conviction, I’d have to acknowledge its permanence.
It’s not that I dislike talking. I just find little joy in conversations that chase nothing. And yet; I’m starting to realise; the nothing is often where people find each other. In the trivia. In the softness of unremarkable days. Maybe that’s where warmth lives. Not in epic tales or deep theories, but in the shared knowing of how tiring 6 p.m. can feel when your soul clocked out at noon.
There’s a strange kind of intimacy in saying something is “just okay.” It’s not thrilling, but it’s truthful. It’s the language of people who’ve chosen each other beyond the highlights.
Lately, I’ve been thinking I need to relearn how to speak. Not fluency; just the courage to shape the shapeless into sound. To say the small things before they gather rust. To describe how sometimes the sunlight on my cubicle wall feels like an accident, and how I envy even that small rebellion. To talk not because there’s something urgent, but because I want someone to see what I see, even when it's grey.
I don’t think I’m losing the plot.
I think I’ve just been reading too quietly.
Maybe that’s why, when the clock finally slips past 7 p.m., I don’t rush. I pack my bag slowly, like I’m gathering up the day in handfuls, sifting through what’s worth carrying home. Outside, the streetlights hum and the air feels softer, almost forgiving. I walk towards her knowing she’ll still ask, “So, how was the office?” and I might still say, “Nothing much.” But maybe tonight, I’ll also tell her about the sunlight on my cubicle wall, or the way the tea tasted sharper than usual. Small things. Things that won’t change the world, but might light up a corner of it. And maybe that’s enough.
Our 7 PM!
Comments
Post a Comment