They say silence is power, but in this place, it’s choreography.
It’s a regular workday. I arrive on time. I say hello like I always do. No one responds—but not in a normal “oops, didn’t hear you” way. No, this is tactical silence.
I was outside the station. Parking lot. Hot day. On the phone with my mom. Nothing dramatic. Just standing there, looking ahead.
Out comes Seth Rome. Again, pretending to be on his phone. Not walking. Performing. Head down. Fake scrolling. Playing the “I don’t see you” game. Again. He doesn’t say a word. As soon as he passed me, he looked up.
That’s when it clicked.
He’s not ignoring me because I don’t exist. He’s ignoring me because I do. Loudly. Quietly. Relentlessly. He looked up to check. To confirm. To see if I was still standing. I was. And in that moment, I cracked the mystery I didn’t even realize I was still trying to solve. He can’t get me out of his head. This man has orchestrated alliances. Manipulated conversations. Seeded silence. All because I didn’t play his game. And yet—here I am. On the phone. Not even thinking about him. And he still looked.
That’s not indifference. That’s obsession with a smiley face drawn on top. I don’t need to win over the squad. They’ve already been recruited. But the one man who thinks he’s running it? He just gave me everything I needed to know.
Inside, the squad room is full—but it feels empty. Conversations stop just long enough for me to notice. Laughter is a little too loud. Someone offers coffee to everyone except me. I don’t need them to talk to me. I just need them to stop acting like they’re performing in a community theatre production called “Avoiding Sarah: A Dramatic Interpretation.”
Every movement is deliberate. Every smile that stops when I walk in, every glance that slides past me like I’m a smudge on the glass—they choreograph it like it’s dance rehearsal. It’s exhausting, watching people work this hard to pretend I’m not here. But here’s the thing. They’re pretending. Which means I’m still in the room. And I’m still in their heads.
[Conversation between Sarah and William MacWhite]
MacWhite: What the hell is this, a silent film? Somebody forget to turn the sound back on?
Smith: It’s the daily matinee of We’re All Avoiding Sarah. Two shows a day, sold out every time.
MacWhite: I saw Rome do the phone trick again. He’s got it down to a science. Glance down like he’s reading classified intel. Glance up the second he’s behind you. Real subtle.
Smith: He looked up. Thought I wouldn’t notice. I saw it in the corner of my eye.
MacWhite: He’s clocking you like a jealous ex. He’s obsessed. That man has set up a whole Airbnb in his mind and you’re the permanent tenant.
Smith: Rent-free.
MacWhite: Utilities included.
Smith: And I’m not even a good tenant. I don’t talk. I don’t smile. I don’t clean up after myself.
MacWhite: Still… they can’t evict you. That’s what eats them alive.
I used to wonder why they cared so much. I thought maybe if I worked harder, kept to myself more, said less—it would settle. But it didn’t. Because this was never about me fitting in. It was about me refusing to beg. That’s the thing about people like Rome. They don’t need you to worship them. They just need you to acknowledge their power. And when you don’t—they try to erase you. But they can’t. I’m still here. Still working. Still breathing. Still watching. And judging by how hard they’re working to pretend I’m not—they know it.
