Whiteboard Note Don’t Tell Mom and Photos on the Bus

Whiteboard Note Don’t Tell Mom and Photos on the Bus

I dreamed I was at work but the office was mixed with my old apartment hallway. I had a voicemail from my sister saying she was waiting downstairs, except when I called back it was my coworker’s voice using her name. I kept riding the elevator and getting off on the wrong floor, looking for a conference room that used to be our kitchen. Everyone was acting like a meeting had already started without me. I found a note on a whiteboard in my handwriting I didn’t remember writing: don’t tell Mom. I felt this tight, embarrassed panic, like I’d missed something important and someone was about to walk in. Then I was on the bus home holding a folder of photos that weren’t mine, trying to figure out whose they were before my stop.