text: Every time the elevator doors open to your floor, you think to yourself, "I really wish I didn't live all the way at the end of this hallway". The buzzing lights are just a little bit too dim, and you feel eyes behind peep-holes following you as you tread quickly and quietly over the stained carpet. It feels like an eternity, but when you finally get to your door, you realize you've forgotten to pull your keys out from your pocket. You try to look back towards the elevator using your peripheral vision as you jam your right hand into your pocket to grab your keys. You don't want them to get you by surprise, but you also don't want them to know you're looking for them. Shit. Your keys snag on your belt and drop to the ground. Their jangling is deafening in the hum of the hallway. You bend your knees slowly and wince as they give away your mistake with a small cracking sound. But you keep your back fully straight and maintain peripheral eye contact with the elevator - they won't catch you off guard. Your left hand brushes the dirty carpet below. Fuck. Where are the keys? You can't look down because you know the moment you stop paying attention, they'll be right behind you. You realize that your back is entirely wet with sweat. You steel yourself and quickly glance down - there they are. You snatch them from the ground and immediately straighten your legs, shooting upwards into a standing position. The feeling of doom in the pit of your stomach drives your eyes to dart right back towards the elevator. There's nothing there. But this doesn't help you feel any better. You still need to get the key in your lock. You've done this so many times that you know the feeling of your apartment key in your hands, and you identify the correct key without looking away from the elevator. You start the search for the keyhole - you know where the lock is, and you know the teeth of the key point up, but the keyhole is small. But you won't look away from the elevator again. With a slight tremble in your hands, you blindly scrape the key, teeth upright, against the lock. Two agonizing seconds pass. Where's the hole? All of a sudden the key slips in easily as you hear the comforting clicks of the tumblers. You realize you've been holding your breath. You turn your key clockwise, still with your eyes on the elevator. The humming feels louder - you can almost feel it buzzing behind your eyeballs. You need to make sure nothing follows you inside. The lock opens and you push down the handle. The weight of your body against the door pushes it open, but as soon as it's wide enough to let your body through, you dash inside and slam the door closed, never once taking your eyes off the gap between the door and the frame. You're home.