Forbidden Floor

They say in each city there's always one elevator
That doesn't show all its floors.
The panel looks normal,
A neat little list of acceptable lives:
G, 1, 2, 3, 4.
But if you tap them all twice,
Your thumb start shaking a little,
Lights glitch for a second
and something new appears.
A scratched-out digit still breathing underneath.
Not really a number. More like a plastic scar.
Something scratched out and still breathing.
You don't show it to your friends.
You don't film it.
You don't post it.
Because suddenly it doesn't feel like content anymore.

They say: "No one ever came back from that floor."
They laugh and change subject.
They talk about work, rent, next weekend.
About their favorite pet, their burnout, their ex.
They talk about anything except the way
Their eyes went empty
A bit more everyday.

And still, from time to time, you hear a name.
Someone you almost knew, someone like you, tired all the time.
Someone who always said "I'm fine" too fast.
"One night he took the elevator alone."
"One night she said she was going upstairs for a smoke."
"One night they disappeared between two floors."

You tell yourself you don't believe in it.
You're not a kid,
You're not superstitious,
You don't have time for ghost stories.
You believe in invoices, deadlines,
burned-out Sundays, fourteen tabs open and nothing moving.
You finally cherish and nurture that quiet pressure in your chest
that never completely goes away.
But slowly you're starting to guess:
that pressure is exactly what the floor is made of.

They say it's not really a place.
More like a decision to make.
A space for you to step into it.
A corridor with too many doors.
A room that smells like versions of lives you never ever lived.
A window with no view,
Only your own reflection,
A little older,
A little freer,
Or maybe gone.

One day, you'll see, you'll get there
One evening, late
Empty building
Neon lights buzzing like trapped insects,
You'll stand in front of the elevator.
Telling yourself how ridiculous.
Telling yourself you're just tired,
You need to go home.
But your hand still hovers
Finding buttons by itself
And the empty space between them,
Like a missing tooth from childhood
Like a name you forgot,
Like a possibility you're too scared to touch.
A wound to re-open.

You'll think of your life:
The routines,
The half-finished projects,
The conversations that never go deep enough.
You'll think of all the times you wanted to disappear without knowing exactly where to.
You'll think:
"If this floor exists,
Maybe it's about deleting the version of me
that gave up on everything before even trying."
You'll think:
"This floor exists.
It has already called me more than once before."
And then,
You'll think no more.

Welcome to the forbidden floor.