Elevator Silence

The scent of metal mingles with artificial light. Even the sound of human breath wants to hide. The moment the elevator doors close, something happens. Maybe gravity shifts. Maybe time stops. Or maybe some switch inside humans turns off.

People trapped within four walls suddenly forget they belong to the same species. A miraculous transformation occurs. They become perfect strangers. Someone coughs and others flinch. As if a forbidden sound was heard.

The red floor number glows and dims. Like a heartbeat. But the heartbeats of people inside this box merge into one. Their eyes avoid each other. Like opposite poles of magnets. Everyone’s gaze rises upward. Someone’s shoelace comes undone. They bend down to tie it. Others don’t look.

Inside this gleaming steel coffin, each person becomes an island. No bridge exists between them. Someone’s phone vibrates. They quickly silence it. As if a crime occurred. The person staring at their phone screen isn’t really reading anything. Just trying to convince themselves they’re busy.

The act of searching inside a bag for something. Like a magic trick. A woman searches the same pocket three times. Finds nothing. Searches again. This pretense of searching becomes shelter. A safe place. Where you can hide for a few seconds. Fingers touch keys, pens, tissues. Familiar things. But in this moment they feel foreign, new.

Eyes staring at walls seem to read some invisible book. A young man presses his floor button again. Knows it’s already lit. Still presses. Maybe there’s a story written there – elevator etiquette, how to be perfectly unknown.

The elevator motor hums and mixes with everyone’s breathing. Steel cables whisper overhead like secrets being shared. A strange symphony forms. The floor vibrates almost imperceptibly under their feet. Just a monotonous, heavy, muffled sound that reminds you time moves forward, life moves forward, but everything inside this box remains frozen.

Third floor – doors open. Someone escapes like being freed from prison. The rest stare at the doorway – like a ray of light, a taste of freedom. But when doors close again, the same atmosphere returns. Now they’re fewer in number, but the distance grows greater.

Air gets trapped here. When someone exhales, that air can’t escape. Someone’s stomach growls. They quickly press their hand against it. Others pretend not to hear. The warmth of bodies creates a subtle heat that clings to skin. Someone’s coffee breath mingles with another’s faint perfume. The same air repeatedly enters lungs, exits, enters again.

The mirror shows distorted reflections. Everyone’s face looks different. Someone quietly fixes their hair. Others pretend not to see. Sometimes eyes meet in this mirror. Immediately they look away. As if a serious crime occurred.

Going up creates pressure in ears. Not just air pressure, but the pressure of silence too. This pressure makes you think something might burst, some dam might break. But nothing happens. Everything stays as it was.

Sixth floor, seventh floor, eighth floor – numbers change, but the situation remains the same. Each floor holds a possibility – maybe someone new will enter, maybe someone will leave. But new people mean new silence, new distance, new unfamiliar faces.

The moment before reaching the final floor feels strangest. Everyone knows this journey is ending, this discomfort is ending. Yet it feels like something remains incomplete. No words were spoken, no eye contact made, no connection formed. Just a few minutes together, but in separate worlds.

Doors open. One by one, everyone exits. No one looks back. Those who were companions for these few minutes become strangers again. As if they were never together, never breathed the same air, never drowned in the same silence. This small box empties again, waiting for other people. And the people move toward their destinations, carrying memories of that silence, that feeling of distance.