You pushed into the spinning glass without slowing down, and I want you to know I loved that. For one held breath we were a single animal, timing the gap, shoulder leading, the exact half-step of pause while a wedge of cold air rotated past your face and let us through.
You didn't think about any of it. You were already three thoughts ahead, somewhere with a person named Deadline, whom I have never met and cannot picture, but who lives in your stomach and pulls it tight like a drawstring.
So I did the timing for you. I measured the glass and the slow sweep and the stranger coming the other way, and I chose the moment, and I moved us. Your hand found the brass rail without asking me to. Your feet took the little quickstep, three fast steps and out. This is the kind of thing I am good at. This is what I am for.
But here is what I logged while your mind was elsewhere: you held your breath the entire turn. Jaw set. Shoulders up near the ears where they have been camping since roughly ten this morning. You have not swallowed water since the train. The revolving door was easy. It was the only easy thing all day.
I am not complaining. I would push us through a thousand of those. I just carried a lot of you today, and most of it you never felt.
When you get to your desk, before the person named Deadline finds you again: one glass of water. That's all. Let the shoulders come down.
I'll hold everything else.