Caught in the Lift With Her

Caught in the Lift With Her The end of the workday always brought a strange kind of relief—tired bones, crowded hallways, and the soft hum of people rushing toward freedom. I usually stayed late to avoid all of that, but that evening I left early. A rare impulse. A small decision. One I didn’t know would completely shift the night. The lift doors were beginning to close when I slipped my hand between them. And there she was. Aisha. Her hair was tied in that loose bun she always fixed when she was stressed, her glasses slipping down her nose, her laptop bag hanging off one shoulder. She looked exhausted, but in that effortless, maddening way where exhaustion somehow made her more attractive. “You almost missed it,” she said, giving me a small smile. “Would’ve taken the stairs,” I replied, trying to sound casual despite the sudden thump in my chest. We weren’t strangers—not exactly. We’d been coworkers for a year, orbiting around each other in long meetings, shared coffee breaks, and accidental eye contact that lasted one second too long. Neither of us ever crossed the invisible line, but the line was always there—thin, humming, alive. The lift doors closed with a soft thud. We descended one floor. Two. Then...