The Drift

The office goldfish circled its bowl in endless revolutions, a mesmerizing orange blur against the gray cubicle walls. Sarah watched it for what might have been minutes or hours — time had grown elastic since Mark left. Six months of waking to the cold side of the bed, of making coffee for one, of stepping over the boxes she still hadn't unpacked because unpacking meant accepting permanence.

Her phone buzzed. Another Slack notification from the channel that never slept. She was becoming one of them — the corporate zombies who shuffled from meeting to meeting, eyes glazed, responding to messages at 11 PM with fake cheer. The ghost of who she used to be, haunting her own life.

'You look like you need this.' A warm mug appeared in her peripheral vision. David, from accounting. He'd been leaving offerings on her desk since the breakup: tea, those lemon cookies she liked, once a small potted succulent that she'd accidentally killed through neglect.

He touched her palm — just a graze, really, while handing her the mug. But she felt it everywhere. A spark. Something waking from hibernation.

'Thanks,' she said. Their fingers didn't quite separate. His hands were scarred — burns from restaurant kitchens, he'd told her once, another life.

'My sister has a fish like that,' he nodded toward the bowl. 'Died last week. She flushed it, and for three days she kept thinking she saw it in her peripheral vision. Like ghosts have better things to do than haunt our plumbing.'

Sarah laughed, and it surprised her — a real sound, not the polite chuckle she gave her manager. The goldfish floated to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles.

'Maybe we're all just swimming in circles,' she said. 'Waiting for someone to notice we're still here.' The admission hung between them, vulnerable and terrifying. The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere, a printer began its rhythmic groaning.

David didn't look away. 'I noticed,' he said softly. 'I notice every day.'