Consider the handshake at the start. Two hands press together, and not a single atom actually touches. The outer electrons of your skin and the interviewer's skin repel each other through the electromagnetic force, so what you feel as a firm, confident grip is really two clouds of negative charge refusing, adamantly, to occupy the same space. You have never touched anyone. You have only ever been held at bay by fields.
Now watch the room. Everyone is worried about the wrong energy. The candidate frets about "positive energy," about "bringing their best self," while sitting inside a genuine furnace: the body burning roughly a hundred watts of chemical fuel just to stay upright and terrified, most of it leaking out as infrared glow.
In a colder wavelength you would see the candidate as a soft human-shaped lantern, radiating steadily onto the interviewer, who radiates back. They are, quite literally, warming each other across the desk while pretending to be composed.
And the nervousness itself, the racing heart, the damp palms: that is adrenaline commanding the body to dump glucose into the blood, priming muscles to sprint from a predator that no longer exists. The oldest survival circuit on Earth, four hundred million years in the making, has been conscripted to answer the question "where do you see yourself in five years?"
Here is the part that stops me. Every carbon atom in that trembling hand, every iron atom in the blood flushing that anxious face, was forged inside a dying star and flung across the galaxy long before the Sun existed.
Ancient stellar debris, assembled by improbable chance into something that can sweat, and hope, and want the job.