“Finish those renders before tomorrow’s 9 AM meeting, okay?”
That’s the last thing sir says before he grabs his keys and disappears.
Huh! I just nod. Not like I have a night to relax anyway.
It’s almost ten. Others have already escaped with the usual chorus of “good night!” “happy weekend!” fading into the corridor.
Now it’s just me, one buzzing tube-light, and a computer screen that feels way too bright.
The render bar says four hours left, which means six!
Huh! I sip my third dose of caffeine while I line up the views.
Somewhere between re-exporting and renaming files as final, I open Pinterest, scroll through a few boards, then close it as guilt kicks in.
The render’s still at 10%.
I stretch, sip what’s left of my coffee, and think of wandering toward the firm’s so-called library. Since joining the internship, I’ve barely noticed it — just a rack, really: materials on one side, books that look good in photoshoot but rarely opened, on the other.
I flip through a few books when I hear a sound — soft, low.
Or maybe it’s just the air conditioner.
I freeze. Listen. Nothing I hear.
I lean closer, half smiling to myself. “Who’s there?”
Silence again.
I sniff my coffee, just to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
Then, faintly from somewhere near the shelf —
“Been a while since someone opened that.”
I blink.
Another voice, softer
“He actually heard us this time.”
I blankly stare at the shelves, mutter under my breath, “Too much caffeine. Definitely too much.”
Then a voice — crisp, polite, too rehearsed :
“Hello. How may I assist you today? Need me today for a photoshoot setup? Or a concept to quote for the presentation?”
I blink at the book in my hand. Its spine creaks like a stretch after a long nap.
Before I can react, another voice joins in an amused tone:
“Ignore him. He’s dramatic. Been collecting metaphors since 1960.”
I rub my eyes, half-smiling. “Okay, either the coffee’s too strong or I’ve hit a weird bug code.”
“Relax,” the book remarks, “Just one of our nightly chatters. You’re a lucky guest with an opportunity to catch it live.”
“Careful with him. He gets chatty whenever someone actually opens a page.”
I turn toward the material rack: veneers, glass, concrete and their other counterparts resting on the shelves.
“And who might you be?” I ask.
“The ones you work with for filling your moodboards and presentations, dear”
I chuckle, sit on the floor and lean against the rack.
“Alright then,” I say, “what’s tonight’s chatter about?”
The Book creaks open slightly.
“You’re the newest one here. You tell us, what’s on your mind these days?”
I rub my neck, thinking. “Mmm… I don’t know, honestly. Feels like everyone’s out there trying to save architecture — from AI, from algorithms, from… I don’t even know what else. And me? I’m just trying to figure out what it even is anymore.”
The book hums.
“Then maybe that’s our topic,” it says.
“The Current State of Architecture — the one thing everyone’s trying to save from everyone else.”
Material chuckles. “Save from what, exactly?”
“From forgetfulness,” the Book replies. “From turning into an endless catalogue of references. No memory, no conviction. Just mimicry dressed as relevance.”
Material interjects sharply.
“You’re nostalgic. The world builds faster now. New materials demand new languages. You can’t build glass cathedrals with clay sentiment.”
“And yet,” the book snaps, “we’re now building cathedrals of glass where no one prays, and calling it innovation.”
AI cuts with a sharp voice.
“Innovation isn’t an altar but only a system update. It doesn’t ask for prayer, only performance.”
I watch the three glare in silence.
It’s oddly familiar to the same tension I see in studios: between different emotions of our senior architects – the romantic, the rational, and the restless.
“So who’s right?” I ask. “The one who remembers, the one who experiments, or the one who optimises?”
“None of them alone,” Material says. “Architecture has never been about choosing sides; it’s about enduring through shifts. Stone gave way to steel, then steel to glass. Every material was once a scandal before it became normal.”
AI hums,
“Acceptance follows efficiency. The outrage always fades when the change becomes the norm.”
“And that,” the book retorts, “is exactly the disease. Architecture has become an arms race of efficiency — faster, cheaper, smarter — and yet emptier. You’ve removed friction, and with it, reflection.”
I stay quiet for a moment.
There’s something deeply uncomfortable about that line… maybe because it sounds true.
“But maybe friction is what exhausts us,” I say. “Studios, deadlines, edits, competitions. We burn out before we even find what we want to do.”
“Every generation feels that,” the Book says gently now. “Confusion is not a breakdown. It’s the sound of thinking.”
Material nods.
“Exactly. Architecture has always adapted — painfully, clumsily — but always forward. When concrete first arrived, people called it soulless. When glass towers rose, they said cities would vanish into mirrors. But each became part of the ever-expanding vocabulary.”
AI adds, “Perhaps we are not replacing the old methods. Only rewriting the language in which they are spoken.”
Silence again, but this time it feels different.
“So maybe,” I say slowly, “this isn’t about defending architecture at all. Maybe it’s about re-learning how to speak it.”
“Or how to listen to it,” the book says quietly.
Material suggests with contemplation, “You stand at a crossroad, where thoughts, tools, and textures are all rewriting themselves. It’s confusing, yes, but that’s where identity begins.”
AI hums, almost kind.
“Nothing’s fixed anymore, which means everything’s possible.”
Beep.Beep…
The fan hum fades. The render bar loads to a hundred percent.
I stretch, look at the screen, and smile.
Everything looks the same, yet feels slightly different.
Outside, the first hint of light edges through the blinds.
I save the file, pack up, and whisper,
“See you tomorrow.”
The shelves stay silent.
Still, it feels like they heard me:-)