Do you remember the dizziness that swept over you the night we were stuck in the elevator? “At least the music is good,” you said, a hint of nervousness in your voice. “Finally, just the two of us alone,” I thought, my heart swirling with a sudden rush of vertigo. You moved closer, and in the ensuing silence, I prayed that help would take its time.

I was content, full of hope, I’ll admit now that it’s far behind us. We chatted for a few minutes, meaningless small talk to reassure you. We sat in the fading light, the music washed over us. Like a lullaby.

Years later, I still dream of having you close by my side, suspended between two floors. Time had stopped for us, hanging unfulfilled by metallic ropes. What if I had held your hand? And kissed you?

And then, all too abruptly, the lights flickered back on. You looked relieved; I felt devastated. The engine hummed to life, the doors opened with a gentle purr, and you stepped out first, leaving me behind, bitter and solitary.

Still, I followed you to the room, while you almost ignored me. I can still hear the door beeping when you opened it with your card. The moment it closed, you pulled me close, your lips meeting mine with a tenderness that left us both breathless. Years later, the elevator breakdown game still drove us wild. Your indifference, my indecision, this ritual we left behind the closed door, the weight of regret lifted, the lightness of being.