Why Staring at the Ceiling and Whispering ‘Not Yet’ Once a Day Changed My Office Dynamic Forever

It began as an accident. A habit formed in frustration, a breath of exasperation whispered into the stale office air. “Not yet,” I muttered once, staring at the ceiling.

Someone noticed.

The next day, I did it again, just to see. I let my gaze linger, eyes tracing the same spot in the sterile ceiling tiles. “Not yet,” I whispered, softer this time. Again, someone noticed. The murmur spread faster than I expected. I could feel their curiosity sharpen, their attention growing heavier with each passing day.

By the end of the week, I had an audience and coworkers exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. “What’s not yet?” Greg from accounting finally asked. I turned to him slowly, held his gaze a moment too long, and smiled. “You’ll know,” I said.

And then, nothing.

Days passed. People avoided asking. The break room grew quieter. Meetings became more efficient. I had given them something unseen to fear, something looming, inevitable. They whispered behind my back, wondering if I knew something they didn’t. The beauty of it was that I didn’t need to.

It became ritual. I chose my moments carefully. Never the same time each day, never with any clear pattern. Sometimes it was just before lunch, sometimes as the last email was sent before the weekend. Each time, I’d pause, lift my chin, and murmur the words. Just enough for someone to hear. Enough for them to wonder if today was the day.

I watched as they began hesitating before speaking, eyes flicking upward as if to catch whatever force I seemed to be waiting for. The whisper of my words spread beyond my own voice. Not yet became a joke, a nervous phrase muttered in passing, but no one laughed too loudly. Not when deadlines loomed. Not when the elevator groaned unexpectedly. Not when a meeting was canceled without explanation.

Somewhere deep in my mind, a name stirred. Viduus, a name that surfaced from the depths of something older than memory, neither summoned nor dismissed. The divider of states, the unseen boundary between presence and departure. He does not claim, nor does he offer release. He merely waits, amused, patient. His hand hovers, but never quite touches.

There is no altar, no rites to call him forth, yet his presence lingers in the spaces between, between breath and silence, between knowing and fearing. Those who acknowledge the entity do so only in passing, a whisper in the void, a hesitation before stepping forward. And when I say not yet, I am not commanding. I am only echoing, the one who decides when.

I did not claim him. I did not call upon him. But every time I whispered not yet, I felt his silent amusement.

And so did they.

Greg stopped asking questions altogether. Others followed suit, their glances lingering just a moment too long. It wasn’t fear of me, exactly. It was fear of possibility, of an unspoken truth I had no need to confirm.

Then, one afternoon, I stopped. I didn’t say it. I didn’t look at the ceiling. I just continued working as if nothing had ever happened.

The silence was deafening.

By the end of the day, a coworker nervously asked, “So… is it time?”

I took my time responding. I let the weight settle. Then, at last, I gave them only the hint of a smirk.

“Not yet.”