You are on mute again. Everyone is, all nine of you, little dark rectangles with your names underneath, and the one person talking sounds far away, like a voice through a wall. You are not really listening. You are looking at your own square in the corner, tilting your head, wondering if you look tired.
You do not. You look young. You will not believe me, but you do.
Here is what I remember, from way out here. Not a single thing that was said on that call. Not the project, not the deadline, not the name of the person who ran long. All of it dissolved within a year, the way nearly all of it does.
What stayed is smaller. The way you had your coffee just past arm's reach so it went cold. The dog sighing somewhere behind you, still here then, still heavy and warm on the rug. The particular gray of that afternoon light through the window you no longer live near.
You spent those forty minutes muted and half gone, waiting for it to end so the real day could start. I want to tell you something gently. That was the real day. That was one of the good ordinary ones, the kind you get a finite number of and never counts them until later.
So when they finally say goodbye and the rectangles blink out one by one, don't rush to the next thing. Sit a moment in the quiet room. Let the coffee be cold. Reach down and put your hand on the dog.
You have plenty of time. More than you think.
Just not so much that you can afford to spend all of it waiting for it to begin.