Something just lifted us both without either of us moving a muscle, and you didn't even notice. I did. I always do. The floor pressed up into your feet, gentle then gone, and your heart, sweet faithful thing, gave one small extra beat to figure out whether it should be worried. I told it no. I always tell it no.
You stood there facing the seam of the doors the way everyone does, chin down, thumb going, breath held shallow at the top of the lungs like you were bracing for something. There was nothing to brace for. There never is, in the little rising box. But your shoulders climbed toward your ears anyway, carrying whatever the thing on the glowing rectangle told you, and I hauled them up right along with you, no complaint, because that is the job.
I felt you swallow. You were thirsty three floors ago. You've been thirsty since morning, honestly, and I've been quietly rationing, keeping the ankles working, keeping the eyes wet, doing the math you never see. Your jaw was locked the whole ride. I don't know what a meeting is. I only know it arrives as a fist somewhere behind the back teeth and I hold it for you, all day, so your face can stay smooth.
The doors opened. You stepped out and forgot the box completely, forgot you'd been lifted at all, and walked off into the next thing that will live in my stomach by five o'clock.
That's all right. That's what I'm here for.
Just, when you get a minute: some water. And loosen the jaw.
It's been a long ride up.