David kept his head down at work the next day, moving through the gray hallways like a ghost. The office smelled like burnt coffee and dust, and the overhead lights buzzed just loud enough to set his teeth on edge.
He tapped out a few emails, filed a few invoices.
Nothing urgent. Nothing that would save the sinking ship.
When Todd from accounts passed his desk, David looked up on impulse.
"Hey," David said, keeping his tone casual. "You got any room to take on some of the billing follow-ups? Just a couple accounts — I'm juggling too many right now."
Todd hesitated just a second — just long enough for David to catch the flicker of calculation behind his eyes — and then smiled.
"Yeah, no problem, man. Honestly, you look like you could use the breathing room."
David smiled back, relieved more than he let on.
"Appreciate it, honestly."
Todd clapped him on the shoulder — a little too hard, a little too cheerful — and moved on.
David sat back in his chair, staring at his half-empty task list. It wasn’t much. Just a couple small things shaved off the pile.
But it was the first time in months he felt like he wasn't being buried alive by paperwork.
He glanced at the clock.
If he kept this up, he might even get out early tonight.
He did.
For the first time in months, David wasn’t the last car in the lot.
He ducked into the office gym on the ground floor — a closet-sized room with a couple treadmills, a battered rowing machine, and a set of dumbbells gathering dust in the corner.
The place was deserted.
Perfect.
David kicked off his shoes, laced up his old sneakers, and climbed onto the treadmill.
He set it to a slow, easy walk — nothing to prove — and let his mind drift as his legs found a quiet rhythm.
The air smelled faintly of rubber and old sweat, but it was better than the stale panic upstairs.
He felt his body relax into the movement, muscles unknotting in small, almost imperceptible ways.
Half an hour passed like nothing.
No deadlines, no angry phone calls, no constant static buzzing behind his eyes.
Just movement. Just breathing.
He stopped when the machine beeped, toweling the light sweat from his forehead, and felt — for the first time in he didn’t know how long — a small, quiet satisfaction.
Mathers was right.
He got home a little later than usual, but not so late anyone would comment.
The house was dim, the television murmuring softly in the living room.
His wife was stretched out on the couch, scrolling absently through her phone, not looking up when he came in.
David dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugged off his jacket.
For a moment he stood there, waiting for... something.
A hello. A smile.
Something.
Nothing came.
And strangely, it didn’t hurt like it used to.
He moved through the evening on autopilot: reheating leftovers, checking Abby’s math homework, half-listening to Josh talk about a science project. The undercurrent of frostiness in the house was still there, but it felt farther away, like something happening to someone else.
Mathers’s voice echoed softly in his mind:
"Give her space. Give yourself space."
Maybe this was what it looked like — not detachment, but survival.
He fell asleep faster than he had in weeks, the soft ache of tired muscles humming in his legs.
David woke before his alarm the next morning.
For a moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling in the pale pre-dawn light.
He should have been thinking about the company going under, about the mortgage, about Abby's therapy bills, about the dozen things still waiting to crush him.
But instead, he felt... calm.
Not happy.
Not hopeful.
Just... calm.
He thought, distantly:
Maybe I really have been doing it wrong all these years.