Page 2 of Laced in Longing

They always do.

“Good morning!” A woman from HR—Danielle? Denise?—waves as she passes. “Hope you had a good weekend!”

I muster what I hope passes for a smile. “It was fine, thanks.”

This is the honeymoon phase of any new job. People smile. They ask questions about where I’m from and what I like to do. They make efforts to include me in lunch plans and after-work drinks. It never lasts. Within weeks, the offers fade away while conversations die mid-sentence when I approach. Eventually, they develop the uncanny ability to look through me entirely, as if the space I occupy is empty air.

I don’t mind, not really, preferring a quiet life to forced pleasantries. Human interaction requires an energy I rarely possess, and a performance I have no talent for. I’m here for the paycheck, nothing more. Just enough to fund my collection.

The elevator carries me to the fourteenth floor, where rows of cubicles stretch under evenly spaced lights. Mine sits in a corner, as far from the break room as possible—a small victory won by arriving early on my first day and claiming territory before anyone could suggest I belonged elsewhere. I had a feeling they wanted to move me, but they quickly realized that more than a few minutes in my presence was draining their life force.

The chair creaks as I settle in, boot up the computer, and prepare for eight hours of spreadsheets and client emails.

I work in accounts receivable, tracking payments, sending reminders for overdue invoices, and reconciling bank statements. The work is tedious, but it requires focus—enough to quiet the static in my head, to push away thoughts of flowers and dying and the sensation of being watched.

“Hey, Maven.”

Chris from the neighboring cubicle leans against my partition, a polite smile on his round face. Early thirties, with a wedding ring and pictures of two children taped to his computer monitor. He brings homemade lunches in containers his wife packs for him and talks about weekend projects around their house.

“Morning,” I respond, turning back to my screen. Please leave me alone.

Of course he doesn’t. “A few of us are getting lunch at that new Thai place around the corner. Want to join?”

I consider saying yes. What would an awkward hour of forced small talk and questions that I do not wish to answer be like? Then I think of the inevitable moment when someone asks about family, and I have to watch their expressions shift as I explain I don’t have one. I could lie, but all that would do is benefit their happy ideals.

“Thanks, but I brought lunch today.” A lie that benefits me. I’ll buy something from the vending machine later and eat it at my desk. Making food to bring is tiring.

“Sure, no problem. Maybe next time.” I nod, but there won’t be a next time.

These feel sorry for me thoughts sink under my skin sometimes, and I just have to remind myself that it’s better this way for everyone involved.

I focus on my work, losing myself in numbers that make more sense than people ever have. By noon, I’ve cleared my inbox and started on a backlog of filing that no one else wanted to tackle. The monotony is soothing, allowing my mind to drift.

I think about the flower waiting on my nightstand tomorrow morning. What will it be this time? A rose with petals that mimic a blush? An orchid gone brittle with neglect?

Part of me wonders if I’ve started placing them there myself. If I’m sleepwalking through some strange ritual my conscious mind doesn’t remember. It wouldn’t be the first time my body has betrayed me—the scars protecting my thighs and ribs are proof enough of that.

The last therapist I saw—before I moved and she insisted we talk on the phone weekly—once suggested I might be dissociating. Splitting myself into compartments to deal with trauma I refused to acknowledge. Maybe she was right. Maybe there’s a version of me that places dead flowers beside my sleeping form, a shadow self trying to communicate in the language of decay.

Or maybe I’m just going crazy. A slow unraveling that started years ago and is finally reaching its conclusion. I should fear the possibility, though I can’t find the will to…no point in cowering from the inevitable.

Were my parents just as sad as I am? There must have been a reason they gave me up the moment I took my first breath.

I work through lunch, ignoring the gnawing in my stomach. Food is fuel; nothing more. I eat when my body demands it, not out of pleasure or social convention. At three, when my vision sways and all four limbs weaken, I finally cave and buy a protein bar from the vending machine, chewing it in mechanical bites while reviewing a client file.

By five, the office begins to empty. People shut down computers, collect bags, and drift to the elevators in groups of twos and threes, making plans for dinner or drinks or television shows they’ll watch tonight. I stay until five-thirty, partly to avoid the crush of bodies in the elevator, partly because going home means facing the emptiness of my apartment.

When I finally leave, the underground passageway is quiet, the worst of the commuter rush having passed. The walk toward the metro station is unending as I pass closed shops and lively restaurants where the evening crowds are gathering. Through glass windows, people laugh as they share meals, touching hands across tables.

A familiar ache blooms in my chest—not quite jealousy or longing, but something parallel to both. I don’t want what they have. I’ve never wanted the messy entanglement or expectations of human connection. But I wonder sometimes what it would be like to exist without this hollow space inside me…this vacuum that seems to pull at everyone who comes too close.

The train is half-empty when it arrives. I sit at the far end of the car, placing my bag beside me to discourage company. Three stops before I can leave. My eyes slip shut, allowing the rhythm of the rails to lull me into a state between waking and sleep.

In that moment of suspended awareness, I sense it—the breath of my name, so faint I might have imagined it. My eyes snap open, scanning the car. No one is looking at me, nor has anyone moved closer. Yet the sensation of being watched prickles across my skin, raising hair along my arms.

Unsteady legs carry me from my stop and hurry through the underground passage. Old Montréal waits above, its narrow streets and stone buildings a welcome contrast to the modernized tunnels below. The January air slaps my face as I emerge, forcing a wheeze from my lungs.

Grumbling to myself is a new hobby of mine since arriving here. Their winter is brutal and punishing.