Corridor of Fears

Down the corridor of an office lost in time, whispers trace porcelain walls. Here, fears tuck themselves neatly behind potted plants and lurk under the buzzing of fluorescent lights. The echo of every footstep entwines with thoughts left unfinished—those scribbled margins of meeting notes.

"Remember to finish the report." Scrawled hastily in shorthand, a fear of inefficiency disguised as scheduling—a note carelessly appended, a chronic reminder that seeps into late hours.

Around a corner, a water cooler sits—a witness to confessions, the birthplace of stories that leak into lunch breaks. Anxiety is transferable and travels faster in whispers relayed through styrofoam cups. Tangled rumors blend into the fabric of week’s end reverie.

Somewhere else, an unattended phone vibrates softly, low against the humdrum of controlled climates. That call that begs to be answered—each ring another unread sentence waiting to reshape lives—potential domestic chaos at bay.

Wander into a drawer’s back where old documents rest, untouched since yestergone agendas. Layers of unnoticed unease curl the corners of forgotten memos and unopened envelopes.

The corridor passes like a breath, holding within its nonchalant length the coiled tension of stories yet to unravel.