Helen
The last of the associates finally packed up their bags and left.
I stayed behind, pretending to finish notes at my desk long after the others had gone. The floor slowly emptied. Conversations faded. Zippers closed. Elevator doors chimed in the distance. I kept my head down, scribbling meaningless lines on a legal pad until the main lights dimmed and the office sank into that heavy, after-hours quiet. Only then did I stand, gather my things, and walk toward the women’s restroom with deliberate calm.
Inside the last stall, I locked the door and sat on the closed lid, phone in hand. My heart was already beating too fast. The screen glowed against my face as I watched the minutes crawl by. 8:42. 8:51. 9:03. Every small sound outside the stall — a distant cleaning cart, the hum of the
