The break room was never meant to be comforting.

Flickering fluorescent light. A humming vending machine that swallowed money more often than snacks. A table with one leg shorter than the others.

Still, at 3:17 a.m., it felt like the safest place in the building.

You sat across from Mike Schmidt, both of you wrapped in silence thick enough to press against the walls. The animatronics were unusually quiet tonight. Too quiet—but neither of you said it.

Mike stared into a paper cup of coffee like it might explain something.

“They don’t tell you how long the nights feel,” he said finally.

You nodded. “They don’t tell you anything that matters.”

The clock ticked loudly. Somewhere far away, metal creaked—but not close enough to panic. Not yet.

Mike rubbed his eyes. “I thought I’d be better at this. At staying calm.”

“You are,” you replied. “You’re still here.”

That earned a small, tired exhale from him. Not quite a laugh.

Silence returned—but it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that only exists between people who don’t need to fill it to feel less alone.

Mike glanced at you. “Do you ever get used to it?”

You considered the question carefully. “You stop expecting it to make sense.”

He nodded, like that answer mattered.

A sudden noise echoed down the hall—something shifting, resetting. You both froze for half a second. Then nothing.

Mike relaxed first this time.

Progress.

When the break ended, neither of you stood immediately. The quiet lingered, fragile but real.

“Hey,” Mike said softly, just before you left. “Thanks for… not pretending this place is normal.”