BETWEEN FLOORS

“Wait!”

I rushed toward the closing elevator doors, arm outstretched. For a moment, I thought I wouldn’t make it. Then a hand shot forward from inside, catching the door just before it sealed shut. The doors slid open again with a soft chime.

“Thanks,” I said quickly, breathless as I stepped inside. I shifted to the side and dug through my purse, fingers brushing past my keys, wallet, and lip balm until I found my mirror.

I flipped it open and raised it toward my face, scanning quickly for makeup mistakes.

I was late.

Not terribly late, but enough to make my chest feel tight. This interview mattered. I needed it to go well. I needed this opportunity, this fresh start—something that felt like mine.

I leaned slightly to catch the light, adjusting my mascara with a careful blink. My reflection stared back at me. Put together. Calm enough. Good enough.

Then I remembered I wasn’t alone.

I tilted the mirror just enough to catch a glimpse of the person behind me.

My heart stopped.

Dan.

The compact snapped shut with a sharp click, and I shoved it into my purse as if it had burned me.

“Long time no see,” he said.

His voice was cold. Casual. Like this was nothing. Like we had run into each other at a store instead of being trapped together in a metal box with nowhere to go.

I stared at the glowing numbers above the elevator door.

Three. Four. Five.

Of all days, why today?

I swallowed and shifted my weight, putting as much distance between us as the narrow space allowed. The air felt thick, hard to breathe. My pulse pounded in my ears.

Our marriage had been short, but it left marks. Late nights filled with yelling. Apologies that meant nothing. The slow erosion of trust until nothing remained. He had cheated more than once, each time with a different excuse, each time somehow turning it back on me.

It was always my fault.

And now here he was, relaxed, like none of it had ever happened.

“You gonna say hi?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

The word came out flat, steadier than I felt.

He chuckled under his breath, that same smug sound that used to twist my stomach. Heat rose up my neck, and for a moment, I imagined turning around and letting everything spill out. Every word I had swallowed. Every truth he had twisted.

Instead, I stared harder at the numbers.

Six. Seven.

Why were they moving so slowly?

His phone chimed. I heard the quick tapping of his thumbs. Of course. He had always loved that thing more than anything else, more than me, more than the promises he never kept.

I tapped my foot against the floor, grounding myself. The faint scent of his cologne drifted through the elevator, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten. It lingered between us like something unfinished.

Dan shifted and started whistling under his breath, a low, careless tune.

He was enjoying this.

Of course he was.

I wrapped my arms around myself, gripping tight. He used to do this—poke, prod, push—until I reacted. Then he would sit back and call me dramatic. Crazy. Too much.

I wasn’t going to give him that again.

“Come on,” I muttered, more to the elevator than anything else.

For a moment, it felt like we weren’t moving at all. My stomach dropped before I noticed the subtle motion beneath my feet. We were still going. It just felt slower.

“Still a crazy bitch?” Dan asked suddenly.

The words hit sharp and fast.

My breath caught. My heart slammed against my ribs.

There it was.

I kept my eyes forward. I wouldn’t turn around. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I couldn’t tell,” he added lightly. “You’ve always been good at hiding it until you blow.”

Silence pressed in around us.

I inhaled slowly through my nose, steadying myself. I felt the familiar urge to snap back, to defend myself, to prove him wrong. To say something that would wipe that smirk off his face.

But I knew where that led.

Every time.

I stepped closer to the door, creating space. My reflection flickered in the metal surface. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed ahead.

I closed my eyes for a moment.
You’re not that person anymore.
You don’t have to fight him to win.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

I exhaled, not realizing how long I had been holding my breath. My legs felt unsteady as I stepped into the hallway.

Behind me, I heard Dan laugh.

For a moment, I kept walking.

I could leave. Let it end quietly. Just another moment I survived.

But something shifted inside my chest.

Not anger.

Something steadier.

I stopped.

Then I turned.

Dan was still inside the elevator, leaning back slightly, one hand in his pocket like he owned the space.

For the first time, I looked directly at him.

Really looked.

And something settled in my chest.

He didn’t look powerful.

He looked small.

“No,” I said.

My voice was calm. Clear.

“I’m not the same.”

His expression flickered.

I held his gaze.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

The words landed between us, heavier than anything he had said.

I turned and walked down the hallway, my steps steady, my shoulders lifting slightly as I moved forward.

Behind me, the elevator doors closed with a soft click.

At the end of the hall, a glass door came into view.

Suite 402.

My interview.

I paused, my hand hovering above the handle. My reflection stared back at me in the glass, no longer rushed, no longer shaken.

For the first time that morning, I wasn’t thinking about being late.

I wasn’t thinking about him.

I was thinking about the fact that I had shown up.

And I was ready.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

Sarah Rainey is a writer based in Tennessee. She is currently studying creative writing at Full Sail University. Her work explores emotional resilience, identity, and the quiet moments that shape who we become.