Mandatory Warmth

There is a particular cruelty unique to institutional optimism.

It arrives laminated.

Scheduled.

Mandatory.

“Team-building seminar,” the memo read.

I considered resigning briefly.

Then I remembered I enjoy my work.

Just not the people who orbit it.

The staff room had been rearranged into something offensively circular.

Chairs facing inward. No barriers. No corners.

No escape.

The facilitator stood at the center with the kind of smile that suggested it had never encountered resistance in its natural habitat.

“Good morning, everyone! Today is about connection.”

Of course it is.

I took a seat anyway.

Back straight. Legs crossed. Expression neutral.

Participation, in my experience, is most effective when weaponized.

We began with introductions.

Name. Subject. “One fun fact.”

When it reached me, the room had already grown comfortable—laughter, light teasing, the usual shallow bonding rituals.

“Diana Bloodbriar. English.”

A pause.

Fun fact.

I tilted my head slightly.

“I have an exceptional tolerance for silence.”

A few chuckles.

They assumed I was joking.

I did not correct them.

“Wonderful!” the facilitator beamed. “Now, let’s describe ourselves in three words!”

Predictable.

The room filled with things like:

“friendly”

“dedicated”

“approachable”

I felt something vaguely unpleasant settle in my chest.

That familiar, artificial pressure.

Expectation.

Performance.

When my turn came, I folded my hands neatly in my lap.

“Selective,” I said.

A pause.

“Unyielding.”

Another.

“Morbid.”

Silence.

Not stunned—just… recalibrating.

The facilitator blinked.

“…Morbid?”

“Yes.”

I offered no elaboration.

Technically correct.

Emotionally impenetrable.

We moved on.

“Let’s talk about what motivates you outside of work!”

Ah.

The dangerous territory of personality.

I had already decided how far this would go.

“I read,” I said.

“What kind of books?”

“Ones that reward attention.”

“That’s a bit mysterious!” she laughed. “Anything more specific?”

I met her gaze.

“Not particularly.”

Across the circle, someone shifted.

Good.

Then came the inevitable.

“Tell us about your families!”

Of course.

They always want access points.

I allowed myself a small inhale.

“My children,” I began, tone even, “are quiet.”

Encouraging smiles.

“They dislike sunlight.”

Less encouraging.

“They prefer observation to participation.”

A pause.

“They have a strong fascination with decay, language errors, and structural flaws in human behavior.”

Now the smiles were gone.

“They are,” I concluded, “quite content.”

Silence settled again—thicker this time.

Someone coughed.

The facilitator pressed on, a little too brightly.

“And your husband?”

There it was.

“Yes,” I said.

A beat.

“He is younger than I am.”

A few exchanged glances.

Subtle. Not subtle enough.

“And… what’s that like?” someone asked.

Ah.

Curiosity, dressed as politeness.

I let my expression soften just slightly.

Not warmth.

Something sharper.

“I adore him,” I said.

That part, at least, required no performance.

“He is quiet. Particular. Discerning. Uninterested in most people.”

A few uncomfortable laughs.

I continued.

“We spend a great deal of time together. Intentionally. Frequently.”

That word lingered just long enough to do its work.

“And I am,” I added, with the faintest lift of my chin, “extremely satisfied with that arrangement.”

No one followed up.

They rarely do when you remove the illusion of distance.

“Let’s do something fun!” the facilitator said quickly. “If you were an animal, what would you be?”

Predictable, again.

“Dolphin.”
“Golden retriever.”
“Owl.”

When it reached me:

“A spider.”

“…Oh!”

“I build structures,” I said calmly. “I wait. And I let things come to me.”

The facilitator smiled tightly.

“Moving on—”

At some point, I was asked to smile for a group photo.

I did.

It felt like wearing someone else’s face.

Bright. Pleasant. Acceptable.

I felt a quiet, immediate disgust settle under my skin.

I do not smile like that.

Not naturally.

Not truthfully.

That expression belongs to environments like this.

Manufactured.

Temporary.

Disposable.

The final exercise never happened.

It was meant to be a “trust circle.”

Instead, the session concluded twenty-three minutes early.

“Time just flew by!” the facilitator said.

It hadn’t.

Chairs scraped.

People dispersed quickly—conversations quieter now, more cautious.

No one approached me.

No one attempted further connection.

Good.

I returned to my corner.

My iced tea waited where I had left it.

Untouched. Unbothered. Honest.

I sat, exhaled, and let my expression settle back into something real.

My phone lit up.

An otome scene resumed mid-confession—soft words, deliberate affection, none of it diluted by performance or audience.

I allowed myself a small, genuine smile.

Private.

Earned.

Sustainable.

No one asked me to “open up” again.

And just like that—

The experiment concluded successfully.