There you are: sitting a little too straight in a chair that is not yours, in the good shirt, in the ten minutes before the door opens. You are frightened. From here I can see why, and I can see it is unnecessary, though I would not dream of taking the fear from you; it is part of the shape, and the shape is lovely.
Look at yourself as I do. You are one long ribbon of a person, and this chair is a single bright knot in it. On one side of the knot: you at your own small kitchen table last night, rehearsing the word "collaborative" until it lost its meaning. On the far side: you in a decade, telling someone about this day with a shrug, unable to remember the interviewer's face.
Both of those yous are sitting in the chair right now, with you. You are never as alone as this room is trying to convince you.
The firm handshake you are about to give reaches all the way back to a father's hand around your smaller one, teaching you to grip like you mean it. You will use that grip until the end, on doorframes, on railings, on the arm of a chair when your knees ache. It began before you remember and it does not stop.
I can see you reading this in the waiting, thumb moving, breath high in the chest. Good. Breathe lower. The answer you are terrified you will forget, you already gave, and did not give, and are giving; from where I stand the whole conversation is one held note.
Whatever comes through that door, I am already sitting beside the version of you it made, and she is fine, and she waves back at you now.