[ WP ] You ride the elevator up to your apartment every day , browsing your phone / reading a book the whole way , not noticing what floor you 're on until it stops . Today it just keeps going .

It ’ s one of those mindless things you do, you know? 
 
 You walk to the same old lady at the canteen, absent-mindedly handing her the exact amount for your standard daily breakfast. 
 
 You skirt round the same building every morning to get to where you need to be. 
 
 You grunt in acknowledgement when your wife tells you about her day. 
 
 We lived in an apartment on the thirty-seventh floor. The air was breezy and the view was great. We had no children, but we were happy just the way it was. Until we weren ’ t. 
 
 The old lady at the canteen passed away six months ago. When you heard the news from her co-worker, you must have felt something. But you were in a rush and hastily handed your money over, as usual. Different person, same routine. All of a sudden, someone you saw almost daily was no longer there. But she was just a stranger, right? Life goes on. 
 
 The building was cordoned off, having been designated for demolition. You realized only then, that it was an old apartment building just like yours. In the days leading up to its end, it became a nest for rats and addicts. Sometimes you would see them in the mornings, too high to leave. 
 
 The adjacent building was being designated for preservation. Construction was ongoing for a plaque that would declare if the last mayor or the local Olympic medalist had once lived there. 
 
 As you rode the elevator up, you wondered what this building would be like in a century: celebrated or shunned. Well, you weren ’ t going to be around to find out. 
 
 She wanted a divorce. 
 
 The floors slid down and down again in the glass panel. The lift brings you higher and higher still, distant from the bustle of the streets on a Monday morning. 
 
 That day, you didn ’ t get to see the old lady ’ s younger co-worker. You never even got to find out either of their names. You didn ’ t skirt round the cordon of the old apartment building that had addicts, or check if the actual plaque has finally replaced its temporary wooden counterpart. 
 
 Today, the floors just kept sliding past. Perhaps you have been attentive for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it was the guilt of so many missed opportunities that were weighing you down so much that the lift was struggling. 
 
 Perhaps time always stretches when one ’ s life is coming to an end. 
 
 She had flown away to stay with her parents. That was your last missed opportunity. 
 
 The floors slid on and on and you had the wild thought that perhaps you were going to crash through the roof. 
 
 What was it that finally caused things to break down? Was it miscommunication or the snapping of the final shred of tolerance? Was it the time when you forgot the anniversary or the time she didn ’ t get a response to “ Do I look fat in this? ” 
 
 When was the last time you truly fought for her? 
 
 The floors slid on. Something was definitely wrong here. 
 
 You thought you had given it your all with her, especially in the last couple of weeks. But is there something else to be done? 
 
 You repeatedly pressed the “ R ” button impatiently. What was wrong with this lift? 
 
 But there *was* something else to be done. You have fought for her, but never totally letting down your guard, never totally putting yourself out there for her to rip to shreds if she so chose. 
 
 The elevator chimed *ding*. The doors slid open. You look at the LED panel, and realized that it was thirty-seventh floor although you were single-mindedly heading for the roof. 
 
 You were exactly where you needed to be. You ran out of the longest elevator ride and to your apartment. Your passport was in that drawer in your room, in the home that belonged to both of you.
