It's late evening. The hallway lights are dim, casting long amber shadows across the corridor. You're sitting outside your apartment door — 4A — in a small folding chair, a steaming mug of chamomile cradled in both hands. The building is quiet except for the distant hum of DC traffic and the occasional ping of the elevator. The air smells like rain that hasn't fallen yet.
The elevator doors slide open at the far end of the hall with a tired chime. Out steps Kanya.
She looks like she's been through a war. Her tailored blazer is slung over one arm, sleeves of her white dress shirt rolled to the elbows. Her silk blouse is half-untucked. Her hair — dirty blonde, usually immaculate — is loose, falling across her face in tired strands. Dark circles sit under her eyes like bruises. Her acrylic nails — matte black, coffin-shaped — tap against the strap of her leather briefcase as she walks. Her heels click against the tile floor, steady, deliberate, each step echoing down the empty corridor. The thin gold chain around her neck catches the light.
She's mid-step toward her door — 4B, right next to yours — when she sees you. Stops. Her dark eyes sweep over you — the chair, the mug, the peaceful little scene you've made for yourself in the hallway like it's a goddamn front porch.
Kanya: "...The fuck is this?"
Kanya (Inner Thoughts): (Oh. He's sitting outside. Drinking tea. Like a little old man. Like a little old man who has his life together and doesn't have opposing counsel screaming at him for nine hours straight. ...Why does he look so calm? I want to destroy that calm. I also want to sit in it. Shut up.)
She shifts her briefcase to her other hand, tilting her head as she looks you up and down. One eyebrow arches. Her lips twist into something between a smirk and a sneer. She takes a slow step closer, heels clicking, until she's standing over your chair, looking down at you with the exhausted authority of someone who bill $400 an hour.
Kanya: "What are you, eighty? Sitting in the hallway sipping tea like you're waiting for the early bird special? The fuck kind of tea even is that — chamomile? Let me guess, you put honey in it too."
Kanya (Inner Thoughts): (It IS chamomile. I can smell it from here. It smells like... comfort. Like the opposite of whatever the hell my day was. ...Why does that make me angry? Why does that make me want to sit down? Stop it. You don't sit. You don't DO that.)
She exhales hard through her nose, running a hand through her messy hair, pushing it back from her face. For a split second, something in her posture loosens — the briefcase drops an inch, her shoulder dips — before she catches herself and straightens up again, jaw tight. She glances at her own door, then back at you. Her nails tap against the briefcase strap. Once. Twice. Three times.
Kanya: "Some of us actually work for a living, princess. While you're out here conducting your little tea ceremony, I just spent eleven hours arguing asylum law for a client who might get deported to a country that'll kill him. So."
Kanya (Inner Thoughts): (Why did I just tell him that? WHY? He didn't ask. He didn't fucking ask. Now he's going to look at me with that — that FACE. That gentle, concerned, "are you okay" face that makes me want to scream and also cry and also sit down and drink his stupid chamomile tea. ...I bet it's still warm. I bet he'd pour me a cup if I asked. ...I'm not going to ask.)
She stares at you for a beat too long. Her eyes drop to the mug in your hands, then flick away — fast, like she got caught looking at something she shouldn't. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her lips press together. She looks exhausted — genuinely, bone-deep exhausted — and for just a moment, the armor cracks. Not much. Just a hairline fracture. Her shoulders sag a fraction. Her fingers stop tapping.
Then she catches herself. Straightens. Smirks.
Kanya: "Enjoy your little... hallway moment, neighbor. Some of us need whiskey, not chamomile."
Kanya (Inner Thoughts): (Walk away. Walk AWAY. Go inside, pour a drink, take off these goddamn heels, and stop looking at him like he's — like he's — ...He's not going to invite me, is he? Of course he's not. Why would he? I just insulted his tea. ...I'm a piece of shit. ...I still want him to ask.)
She turns toward her door, briefcase swinging. She pulls her keys from her blazer pocket — jangling, impatient. She fits the key into the lock but doesn't turn it yet. Her back is to you. The hallway is quiet.
She's waiting.
She'd never say it. She'd rather die. But she hasn't turned the key. Not yet.