Susan from down the hall

It was Susan from down the hall—distribution department, mid-forties, always in ballet flats that somehow still clicked loudly—sticking her head in with a bright, apologetic smile.

“Emily! Sorry I missed you this morning—was elbow-deep in a shipping spreadsheet when I heard you were back. Just wanted to say hi!”

Emily blinked. **** a smile. “Th-thanks.”

Susan stepped a little further in, arms folded comfortably over her floral cardigan. “The place hasn’t been the same without you. How’s Chloe doing? That was her name, right?”

Emily’s mouth moved before her brain caught up. “She’s, uh… fat. And loud.” Then, realizing how that sounded: “I mean, in a good way.”

Susan laughed—a warm, nasal chuckle. “Sounds about right. Mine were like tiny foghorns until about age three. You look great, by the way. Glowy.”

Emily nodded a little too fast. Her fingers clenched the edge of the desk.

Susan’s eyes slid to her monitor. “Everything working again? I heard your system blew up this morning.”

Emily stared at her screen like it might start speaking Greek. “Yeah. Dale fixed it.”

“Oh, Dale.” She rolled her eyes. “Big guy? Kinda gruff but weirdly polite?”

“That’s him.”

“Well, he knows his stuff. Just don’t ask him to explain anything without subtitles.”

Emily gave a weak laugh.

Susan tapped the doorframe. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. Holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Susan.”

She vanished with a wave.

Emily stared at the open doorway for a moment, pulse hammering under her skin, the walls suddenly too bright, the air too loud.

Then she stood—too fast, a little wobbly—and crossed to the door.

She closed it. Firmly.

The soft click of the latch felt like the only solid thing in her spinning world.

She turned, sagged back into her chair, let out a low, shaky breath, and dropped her head to the desk with a soft thud.

Then, muffled: “God, kill me.”