I remember staring at the cursor blinking on my laptop screen.
The report had been pending for three days. Not because it was difficult. Not because I didn’t know what to write.
I had already written it twice in my head.
Still, I found myself arranging files, replying to unimportant messages, wiping the desk. Moving, but not moving forward.
I told myself I needed better clarity. A quieter moment. The right mood.
All gentle lies.
“He’ll join in five minutes,” the coordinator whispered, eyes fixed on her phone.
The room was already full. Forty chairs. Forty expectant faces. My slides were ready. My microphone was clipped. Five minutes stretched into ten. Someone in the front row adjusted his notebook. A woman near the aisle checked her watch. I stood there, holding a marker I didn’t need, rehearsing an opening I suddenly didn’t believe in.
I’ve done this hundreds of times. Boardrooms in different cities. Workshops with ambitious teams. Executive rooms where the air smells faintly of carpet cleaner and authority. Normally, I move easily into those spaces. I know how to carry the room. I know how to make people lean forward.
That morning, I couldn’t.
It was a small moment, almost forgettable.
I was sitting alone in my car outside a familiar café, engine off, phone in my hand, watching people drift past the windshield. Office-goers with hurried steps. A young couple arguing softly. An older man waiting patiently for someone who seemed late. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I had arrived early for a meeting and decided not to rush inside.
I stayed.
There is something honest about these in-between minutes. They don’t demand productivity. They don’t carry expectations. They simply exist.