A few more days pass, and there is still radio silence between me and Ke’lan. It’s unusual that I haven’t gotten any sort of correspondence back, not even a “read” notification. Figures that the only person that knows about my split identity-- save for Kat and Skye-- would eventually end up ghosting me, says the pessimistic side of my mind.

I get a call on my landline, though it only registers to me on the second ring. I hastily sit up in my chair and answer: “Gallagher speaking.”

Order coming through, new set of racks. More storage for business data. More storage for consumer data. They need my signature in order to bring them into the building. I stand up from my chair. “Coming down now.” I hang up the phone and stretch.

I’ve got so much space to stretch now, having my own corner office. Felt anti-climactic when I first got it. Walking down the hall of cubicles feels like a walk of shame, keeping my head focused forward: I don’t want to see the judgmental glares of people who want this boring job.

As I descend to the base floor, my mind wanders about Ke’lan once more. What if they are just really busy, or still don’t know how to use the phone? says the more optimist -- or is it realist? -- part of my brain. They just got it not too long ago, and judging by their inexperience they’ve never used one before. Give them more time to respond.

I get downstairs, I subtly bow at the delivery person in front of me, and they hand me a clipboard. Order for 5 new racks. I look behind them and see the delivery truck right outside.

I sign the order form and hand the clipboard back. They attempt to push it forward, but I insist on helping. They should have a second dolly on them. Their departure back outside confirms my assumption. I look over to the front desk clerk, the same person who called me down. “Direct them to the correct floor, please.”

I take a vacant elevator up to the server room, allowing myself to zone out as I ascend. Manual labor lets me stay away from the phone-- I don’t need to be on the phone at all times. Keeps me off the company computer, too: the less screen-time, the better.

I make it to the server room and, like magic, someone comes over to take the dolly away from me. “We’ve got it from here, boss,” says an employee I have no mindspace to remember.

What a garbage boss I am.

The only purpose I was needed for in that moment was to sign off some goods-- nothing more, nothing less. I call the elevator so I can head back to my spacious corner office. It opens, and out wheels the delivery person with the second rack, out of 5. Wish I were doing that right now. Into the elevator I go, down to my office I descend. Back to the daily grind of managing.

Phones, phones, phones; papers, papers, papers. All for very important clients. At least I don’t have to be on a phone for papers, but it’s still menial work. Making papers digital, for the people who can’t fill out digital forms; cataloguing information into their proper spots; making new catalogues for new clients. It’s almost second nature to me.

After my lunch break, the hours tick on. Twelve, thriven, and back down to one. The stacks go down slowly, but it feels like they continuously replenish. A sisyphean task, if there ever was one, but one that must get done for the company, for our clients.

What kind of things is Ke’lan up to right now, I wonder.

“Val?” I hear and am immediately snapped out of this trance. Sydney places a hand on my shoulder, looking concerned. “You okay, or do you need to go home early?”

I sit up straight in my seat. “Nah,” I say, staying true with my body but lying to my mind, “I’m fine. Did you want to go over those new website design changes right now?”

The rest of the day is a blur after that.

---

It happens as I am getting ready to sleep, the day before the work week ends. While brushing my teeth, I get a notification from the elusive blond.

“Sorry. Got sick with bedrest for about a week. La Caldera, end-week?”