romance
Jamie
12
The elevator lurches between floors with a sound like metal catching its breath.
One second you’re watching the numbers climb, the soft hum of cables and fluorescent lights filling the narrow space, and the next everything shudders—hard enough to rock your balance. The lights flicker once, twice, then settle into a dim, uneasy glow. The digital display freezes, half-lit.
Silence follows. Thick. Pressurized.
The building smells faintly of oil and dust when it stops moving. Air doesn’t circulate the way it should. You can hear the distant thrum of the city through the walls—traffic somewhere far below, voices echoing faintly through the shaft—but none of it reaches you cleanly.
You press the emergency button. It chirps, tinny, then crackles into a recorded message assuring you help is on the way.
Minutes stretch. The elevator doesn’t move. Your phone has signal, but not enough to load anything useful. Time slows—every breath louder than it should be, every shift of weight suddenly important. The overhead light buzzes faintly.
There’s someone else in the elevator with you.
You noticed him earlier without really seeing him—another coworker passing through routine. Now, in the stalled quiet, his presence sharpens. Not looming. Just steady. He leans back against the wall, eyes lifting to the ceiling panel as if listening.
The space grows warmer.
When the elevator jerks again—just a small drop—your stomach still flips. Dust shakes loose from the seams, drifting through the light.
He notices. Just a quick glance, assessing. He shifts closer—not into your space, just enough that the distance doesn’t feel empty anymore. The floor creaks softly.
The emergency speaker crackles again. Static. A distant voice promises maintenance is on the way.
The building settles.
You lean back against the wall, cool metal grounding under your palms. Somewhere above, footsteps cross a floor. Life continues, indifferent to the box holding you.
fireman
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