I opened my mouth to answer, but my colleague had already moved on to explaining what I was about to say, gotten it completely wrong, and was now asking me to confirm his version. I nodded. He felt heard. I felt like a hostage who'd just agreed to a ransom demand.

I opened my mouth to explain why the milk was exploding in the fridge, but my friend was already three minutes into a story about his cousin's dog's grooming appointment. So I just stood there, nodding, watching the dairy volcano in real time. By the time he finished, the milk had achieved its final form: cottage cheese. He asked if I was okay. I said, "Yeah, just listened to your whole thing." He said, "Great, right?" The fridge smelled like betrayal and lactose.

You ever notice how the person talking over you always waits exactly zero seconds after you start a sentence before launching into theirs? It's like they've got a motion detector set to "vowel sound detected—INITIATE INTERRUPTION." I watched a guy do this to his wife for fifteen minutes straight, each time nodding enthusiastically like he was finally about to acknowledge her point, then immediately pivoting into a completely different tangent about his gym membership. At one point she just opened her mouth, he sensed the air movement, and cut in with "BUT ANYWAY." I'm pretty sure she's still waiting for that sentence to finish.

I tried to tell my partner about my day—you know, the usual highlights: traffic, a weird email, leftover pasta. Forty-seven minutes later, I'm holding a cold cup of coffee while he's explaining the exact tire pressure specifications of his coworker's new van. I open my mouth. He says "wait, and then—" I close my mouth. We're both staring straight ahead now, like two people waiting for the microwave to finish.

You're mid-sentence about why your flight got cancelled when your coworker interrupts with a story about *their* flight. You try again. They're already three sentences into a tangent about airport nachos. You open your mouth. They're now doing a full impression of the gate agent. You close your mouth. By the time they finish, you've forgotten what you were saying, and somehow you're now helping them troubleshoot their suitcase lock while they never did learn why you missed the wedding.