The elevator smelled of metal and other people’s days. She stepped in without hurry, like she had all the damn time in the world. Her dress was tight—not to impress anyone, but because she couldn’t be bothered to fight it. She pressed the button with her fingernail, slower than necessary.
The doors closed with a tired sigh. Just her and a silence that knew too much.
She leaned against the wall, sideways, like a woman who had already broken once and decided not to put herself back together properly. Her red lipstick was slightly smudged, but she didn’t care. Nothing worth keeping is perfectly straight.
The elevator got stuck between floors. Of course it did. It always gets stuck when you’re alone with yourself.
She pulled a cigarette from her purse, just to hold it between her fingers. She didn’t light it. Some vices are just memories. She looked at herself in the mirror above the control panel—a look that didn’t ask for approval, only confirmation that she was still here.
She laughed softly. Briefly. Like someone who knows she’ll survive, just without applause.
When the elevator started moving again, she didn’t change her posture. Didn’t fix herself. Didn’t prepare to exit. Women like her don’t exit—they simply appear somewhere else.
The doors opened.
She stepped out.
And the elevator was left a little warmer than before.
