Quorum

The book feels heavier than it did yesterday. My notes are spread across the desk, a scatter of color-coded highlights, tabs, margin flags, numbers boxed and reboxed until the page feels crowded with intention.

I start reading. Keywords surface: depreciation, amortization, GAAP, IFRS. It takes a moment to realize I’ve already been here. Maybe twice. I slow down, reread, underline a sentence I should understand. The words are familiar, but flat, refusing to settle into anything useful.

When I turn the page, my tea has gone cold. The highlight colors blur together, no longer marking anything distinct. I reach for my pencil, then stop. The paragraph waits, unchanged. The house has gone quiet in that particular way that only happens late at night.

I straighten the stack of notes, nudge the lamp closer, start again from the top.

My chin dips, just enough to startle me awake. I sit up and keep going, telling myself I’ll stop after the next section.

It happens again. Not sleep exactly, just a subtle drift I don’t register until I surface. I don’t reach for more tea. I don’t stand. I stay. The way I’ve always worked isn’t responding. Staying isn’t adjustment. It’s insistence. And insistence, here, feels like a dangerous game.

I close the book without finishing the section.

This isn’t a failure of effort.

The work is still there, but the terms are different now. What used to be handled by staying longer requires a different kind of judgment.

I’m used to thinking of limits as something temporary, something to lean against. This doesn’t feel like that.

I turn off the lamp.

The rules have changed.