Don’t Look Up

Have you ever travelled in a lift? Of course you have.

But have you noticed how uncomfortable it can feel sometimes?

I think lifts can be deeply uncomfortable, especially during peak hours. They’re crowded, people standing closer than they ever would by choice. You would recognise a few faces, people you’ve seen every day but never really spoken to. The rest are strangers you’ll probably never meet again except in the lift, yet you share these few silent seconds like it means something.

Everyone goes quiet. Not the natural quiet, but a careful one. Some people stare at the ceiling, as if it has answers. Some fix their eyes on the changing numbers, watching them move with an intensity that feels almost desperate, as if they don’t look away, time might pass faster. Others look at their phones without really scrolling, pretending to be occupied, pretending not to notice anyone else.

Even when you know the people around you, there’s often silence. That awkward pause where a greeting feels unnecessary, and not greeting feels rude. Especially on Monday mornings, when no one wants to acknowledge that the week has started. You stand there, aware of everyone and connected to no one, waiting for the doors to open so you can return to your separate lives, your cabins and desks.

The silence doesn’t just exist in the lift. It presses in. It makes you aware of your own breathing, your posture, your clothes, your hairstyle, and where your eyes are resting... You start wondering if this is what discomfort feels like when nothing is technically wrong.

The silence sits there, heavy.

Someone once said we are afraid of silence, not because it is empty, but because if it lasts long enough, we might start hearing ourselves. And maybe that’s true. Maybe we fill our days with noise, conversations, screens, and distractions just to avoid sitting with what’s underneath, the questions that we have to reflect upon and answer.

That’s probably why real companionship feels so rare. Because a real connection is not about filling the silence. It’s about being allowed to exist inside it.

There’s a moment I remember from Normal People. Marianne and Connell are far apart, living in different places, different time zones. They’re talking late at night. Connell opens up about his anxiety, about how he feels close to breaking down, like a panic attack might be waiting somewhere in the corner. He says he’s exhausted, like everything inside him has gone quiet and loud at the same time.

There’s a pause. Marianne asks if he wants to sleep. Then, almost immediately, she says they can keep the laptop on. She asks him to carry her over to his bed.

No advice. No fixing. No long conversation.

He falls asleep with the screen still on. When he wakes up the next morning, the call is still running. Marianne is on the other side, working quietly. Nothing dramatic happened. He just slept better knowing someone was there.

That’s what comfort looks like sometimes.

Not words. Not solutions. Just someone staying, even through a screen, through words… even across miles. Because some distances aren’t measured physically.

Maybe that’s why lifts feel uncomfortable. Because they force silence without connection.

And maybe what we’re really searching for isn’t noise, or constant conversation, or distraction.

Maybe we’re just looking for one place, or one person, where silence doesn’t need to be filled.

Where we don’t have to look up or down.

Where we can just be.

-Vimarsh Shah

Jan 2026, Ahmedabad.