We orbit in fluorescent glow,two ghosts with coffee cups in hand,our dialogue a careful script—the project, the deadline, the plan.

You laugh (a sound like breaking glass),I mirror back the hollow tone.The conference room is far too warm—or is it just my blood alone?

We parse the past in subtext now:“Remember when…” means I still do.“You look well” means I’m not.The printer hums, and I count tiles—anything to outrun the thought

of how your fingers once knew minenow highlighting separate lines.

The workday ends. We pack our things.You say we’ll “sync again next week.”I nod. The wound, though neatly dressed,still weeps beneath this polished speech.