Let's circle back

The office wakes up at 8:57. By 9:00, Linda is smiling through her teeth and reminding us that "feedback is a gift," just before disappearing into the copy room, where the toner drawer has absorbed more rage than our quarterly reviews. We say nothing.

Because words have weight here, too much to risk. We move through the motions, typing and nodding, careful to keep everything balanced on the edge of silence. It’s not empty; it’s practiced.

The layout is painfully familiar: cubicles lined like forgotten grave markers, each personalized with faded photos, sad succulents, or motivational quotes scavenged from the internet. The fluorescent lights buzz with a low, relentless energy that never quite stops, casting a sterile glow over beige carpets and scratched desks. The ceiling panels exhale shallow gusts overhead, sighing like something too tired to complain.

There’s a soft chorus of mechanical sounds—the persistent clack of keyboards, the occasional beep of an incoming email, the scratch of marker against whiteboard surfaces covered in buzzwords like “synergy,” “alignment,” and “growth.” The printer coughs up reams of reports no one reads, and the coffee machine gurgles somewhere near the break room, forever on the edge of malfunction.

Every surface is wipeable, and every angle is measured. Even the potted plants are the same species, spaced identically between corners, as if they, too, received onboarding instructions. We have standing desks, but no one stands. We have suggestion boxes, but they remain sealed.

By mid-morning, the corridors fill with the muffled shuffle of footsteps: heels clicking impatiently, the dull thud of sneakers, and the ever-present murmur of hushed conversations that dissolve the moment a door opens. Occasionally, someone laughs too hard at something that couldn’t have been that funny.

The break room is a sanctuary and a trap all at once. The air smells faintly of burnt coffee and something synthetic—maybe the plastic of disposable cups. On a shelf, a stack of company-branded mugs sits untouched, and the microwave hums erratically as it reanimates someone’s forgotten lunch. The vending machine displays the same three blinking choices every day, even though no one recalls restocking it.

The daily rituals are as predictable as the sunrise. The morning email blast lands at precisely 9:15, a barrage of buzzwords and passive-aggressive reminders. The stand-up meeting limps along, everyone glued to their screens, faces pixelated and half-attentive. Occasionally, the receptionist’s phone rings off the hook, but no one seems to know what for.

Carl hasn’t stood up in months, but his little circle still glows in every meeting. No camera. No sound. Just the presence of Carl, haunting us softly from somewhere between Finance and Facilities.

I’m the Strategy Liaison, which is neither strategy nor liaison. I mostly rearrange slides in decks no one opens and update frameworks no one remembers approving. Still, I get my metrics in. They like that.

Linda appears in the kitchen with a tray of cupcakes. Red velvet, the celebratory flavor of choice for both promotions and terminations. "You have to make space for growth," she chirps. I take one and nod. My mouth fills with synthetic cream and the texture of something almost sincere.

Yesterday, I found a stapler in the fridge.

Today, the windows show a fog so thick, it might as well be paint. A bird hit the glass once. We haven’t seen birds since Q1.

Sometimes I wonder if there's anything outside the building at all.

By Thursday, the same email arrives three times from three different VPs. It reads: "Due to ongoing alignment efforts, please disregard any previous disregard notices. Maintain current noncompliance until standardization resumes." I file it under "Clarity." That folder is getting full.

In the elevators, the buttons shift. Once, I pressed 3 and ended up in a hallway with no doors, just a long strip of flickering carpet and a mirror that didn’t show me. I still haven't told anyone.

On Friday, I skip the stand-up. No one notices. Even Linda’s cupcake tray passes by my desk like a ghost. I open a deck labeled "Resilience Framework 9.3" and stare at the cover slide. It’s just a photo of a hand squeezing a sponge.

By Monday, the calendar has no dates. Just colored blocks. I click one and it opens a spreadsheet titled "Existence." There are no formulas. Just rows and rows of "Yes."

Something clicks.

I can’t sleep. The air at night tastes like recycled confidence and lemon-scented surface wipes. Every morning feels like Monday. Every email is marked as urgent.

In the bathroom mirror, my reflection doesn’t blink when I do. I wave. It waves back, half a second late.

I begin to take notes.

March 3: Linda said the same sentence as last week, word-for-word. Smiled on beat 3. Cupcake: red velvet.

March 6: No one opened the break room door, but the coffee pot emptied. I saw no one drink.

March 12: The elevator opened to brick. I stayed inside.

March 18: I think I used to have a home. I can’t remember where I go after 5:00. The night is just a pause between meetings.

March 25: I found a room with no walls—just soft panels and a chair bolted to the floor. I sat. The light flickered.

March 30: Linda greeted me by name before I logged in. I hadn’t spoken aloud all day.

April 2: The fire alarm went off. No one moved. Then it stopped.

Today, Linda asked me how I was feeling.

I said, "Productive."

She smiled, but didn’t blink.

I return to the room again. The one without walls. There's no door when I look back. Just static.

And then—something different.

A voice I don't recognize. Soft. Human.

"You're not at work, Simon. You've been here for a while."

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

They show me the room. It’s white, with smooth walls and no corners. I’m seated. My hands are still.

No glass staircase. No Linda.

Just the soft hush of filtered air.

I nod slowly.

The words form inside me—clear and deliberate—though still unspoken.

Then I lean forward and speak, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s circle back.”