The Chair Outside the Meeting Room

The chair was one of those plastic stackable ones, grey, slightly curved, with a crack near the backrest that pinched if you leaned too far. It sat outside the meeting room on the eighth floor, next to a potted plant that had not been watered in a long time.

I sat there holding my notebook, though I already knew I would not be writing anything inside it.

Through the glass wall, I could see the meeting continuing without me. Twelve people around the table. My manager at the head.

Someone was talking, using both hands, like he was explaining a big idea. The others nodded. Someone laughed.

Nobody looked outside.

A younger colleague walked past me with a cup of coffee. He nodded, polite but distracted.

“Meeting long ah?” he said.

“Ya,” I said.

He went in. The door closed softly behind him.

I checked my phone. No new messages. I scrolled anyway. Habit.

Earlier that morning, my wife had asked, “What time you coming home tonight?”

“Not sure,” I said, tying my shoelaces. “Got meeting.”

She nodded, already thinking about dinner. About whether the fish from the market was still fresh enough. About whether our son had remembered to bring his PE shorts again.

At the bus stop, I stood behind a man in office attire who was practising his presentation out loud, whispering to himself. I recognised the tone. Confident. Urgent. Slightly desperate.

When the bus came, we squeezed in. I stood holding the pole, shoulder pressed against someone else’s back. I caught my reflection in the window. Same face. Same hairline retreating quietly, one millimetre at a time. Same tired eyes pretending they were alert.

Inside the meeting room earlier, my manager had smiled at me the way people smile when they are about to explain something simple to you.

“We’re restructuring,” she said. “Not downsizing. Just… realigning.”
Someone asked a question about roles.
She answered smoothly. Too smoothly.

When it was my turn to speak, I cleared my throat. My voice came out softer than I expected.

“So where does my role fit in?” I asked.
There was a pause. Just a fraction too long.
She glanced at the HR representative beside her. Then back at me.

“Maybe we can take this offline,” she said. “After the meeting.”
That was when the chair appeared. Someone gestured. Someone else opened the door.
And suddenly, I was outside.

A cleaner came by pushing a trolley. She smiled at me.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning,” I replied.

She wiped the glass wall with a cloth, cleaning fingerprints from inside the room. As she worked, my face appeared and disappeared in the reflection, distorted by streaks.

I remembered my first day at this company. I was younger then. I had worn a new shirt, ironed carefully the night before. I had arrived early and sat at my desk pretending to be busy so nobody would think I was lost.

A senior colleague had leaned over and said, “Relax lah. First day only.”
I had laughed too loudly.
Now, sitting outside, I wondered how many first days I had left.

My phone buzzed. A message from my wife.
“Dinner at 7 ok?”
I typed, “Ok.”

Then deleted it.
Typed again, “Will try.”
I stared at the words before sending.
Even that felt dishonest.

The meeting door finally opened. People filed out, chatting about lunch plans.
My manager came last.
She smiled again. Same smile.
“Let’s talk,” she said.

We went into a small room nearby. No windows. Two chairs. A table that wobbled slightly.

She folded her hands.
“You’ve been a valuable contributor,” she said.
I nodded. I had heard this sentence before, in other rooms, in other years.

“But the direction is changing.”
I nodded again.

“We’re offering a transition package,” she continued. “It’s generous. And we’ll support you.”
Support you. Like a railing you hold onto after you have already missed a step.

I asked practical questions. Timeline. Handover. Access.
My voice sounded calm. Professional. Almost impressive.
Inside, something was shrinking.

When I left the building later, the sun was bright. Too bright. People were queuing for chicken rice downstairs, discussing office gossip, weekend plans, tuition schedules.

Life was continuing at full speed.
I walked past the kopi stall and ordered a kopi-o kosong. The auntie looked at me.

“Today no meeting ah?” she asked, noticing the time.
“Meeting finish,” I said.
She poured the coffee carefully, as if this was the most important task in the world.

I took the cup and stood there for a moment, not ready to go home, not ready to be anywhere else.

Around me, people talked about promotions, property prices, school rankings.
Nobody talked about chairs outside meeting rooms.

I finished my coffee slowly.
Then I stood up.

PS This piece is a composite, inspired by real conversations I’ve had while helping others shape their life stories.

PPS I write books too. They live here:
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