The Janitor’s Unseen Life

Lights buzz overhead, casting a dull glow on the empty office. A mop glides across the tiled floor, silent, steady. The man holding it—Mark—pauses, leaning on the handle, staring at the city beyond the glass windows. He exhales, the air thick with something unspoken.

Mark: You ever notice how no one really looks at the janitor? They see the uniform, the mop, maybe the name tag if they bother—but never the person. Kinda funny, right? A guy spends fifteen years in the same building, sees the same people every damn day, and still—poof—he’s invisible.

He chuckles, shakes his head, resumes mopping. His reflection watches him from the polished floor, slightly warped, as if even the universe struggles to define him properly.

Mark: You wanna know what’s even funnier? The janitor sees everything. Every late-night deal, every hushed conversation, every little secret tucked away in the cracks of this office. People think I’m just here for the trash cans. But man, I’ve seen more lives unravel in this place than any soap opera on TV.

He stops again, glancing towards the CEO’s glass office at the far end of the hall. The chair inside is empty, yet it feels occupied by something heavier than a person—power, decisions, consequences. Mark scratches his chin, thoughtful.

Mark: You’re probably thinking, “Alright, so what’s the big deal? Some janitor picks up a few office rumors. Who cares?” But here’s the thing. I don’t just hear secrets. I understand them. I see the way they move. The way they tangle people up, shape their choices, push them towards things they swore they’d never do.

He gestures vaguely around the empty room, as if pointing to invisible ghosts lingering in the cubicles.

Mark: You ever hear about the way a shark hunts? It doesn’t just chase. It watches. It waits. It knows before it moves. That’s what I do. I wait. I learn. And when the time is right, I act.

A pause. His gaze darkens, the weight of something unsaid pressing against his ribs.

Mark: You think being a janitor is all I am? Heh. You ever hear of a man who chooses to clean up messes because he’s made too many of his own?

His fingers tighten around the mop handle. The past creeps in—memories he doesn’t talk about. A different life, different choices. The kind that leave stains no mop can erase.

Mark: Used to be in a different kind of business, once. Not so different from this one, though. Both jobs are about cleaning up after other people. Only back then, it wasn’t coffee spills and paper scraps.

A flicker of something in his eyes—regret? Nostalgia? A shadow of the man he used to be?

Mark: You ever wonder what happens to people like me? The ones who know too much but don’t say a word? Do we get rewarded? Do we get forgotten? Or do we just keep pushing that damn mop, night after night, waiting for the right moment to… disappear?

The office is silent now, the city lights flickering outside like distant signals. Mark picks up his mop, starts moving again. The conversation—whether with himself or someone unseen—fades into the rhythm of his work.

Mark: Maybe one day, I’ll leave a note for myself. Just like the one I left for Emily. Maybe it’ll say: “Careful. You’re on your own list.”

He smirks, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. The janitor keeps moving. The unseen observer. The man no one notices—until it’s too late.