You always knew where the door was

Every big room used to hold two meetings. The one on the agenda, and the one in your head. When can I slip out? How long until the next one? The interview. The first date. The appointment you'd waited weeks for. Some part of you always knew exactly where the door was. Half of you was already halfway out.

Now you walk in with nothing to arrange and nothing counting down under the conversation. The cigarettes rented out half your attention and charged you for the privilege. That lease just ran out, and nobody's renewing it.

People feel it even when they can't name it. You stay for the last ten minutes. You lean in instead of eyeing the clock. You hear the second half of what someone says. Capability was never your problem. Availability was. God is gathering up the half of you that kept wandering off. Undivided attention is rare, and it's yours.

Next time something matters, take a seat in the middle of the room. Get there early because you want to. Stay until the very last word, with nothing tugging at your sleeve. Let them meet the whole person who was in there all along. All of you walks in, and all of you stays.