The quiet after the call that didn’t go right

It’s 2:30 PM and I’m sitting here with a cold cup of tea, replaying a call from this morning—someone screaming for help in a language I don’t speak, and me fumbling through the translator like a drunk diplomat. The outcome was okay, but not good. Not even close. I keep thinking about the way their voice cracked when they said ‘I can’t breathe’—not because of panic, but because they’d already given up. That kind of silence between breaths? It lives in your bones. I’ve worn out three pairs of shoes since I started this job. Still, I keep buying new ones. Like maybe if I step lighter, the weight