This is pathetic.
I push back from my desk, grab my empty mug, and head out into the corridor. My feet carry me down to her floor like they have a mind of their own, following a pattern I’ve fallen hopelessly into over the last couple of weeks.
The break room door swings open, and I head straight to the coffee maker. I pour myself a cup like I’m dying for a caffeine kick. But I’m not here for the caffeine; I never am. My eyes peer through the glass partition into the main office space the same way they’ve done every workday for the last two weeks.
I can see into her cubicle from here. She’s sitting hunched over her computer, fingers moving across the keyboard. I see the way her blouse hangs slightly loose at the shoulders, the sharpness of her collarbone visible even from this distance when she turns around to reach for a file.
“She has lost weight,” I mutter bitterly, and my hand grips the mug hard enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
A colleague stops by her desk and says something with a smile. Anne looks up and returns the smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s mechanical, practiced. Tired. The colleague lingers for several seconds, then moves on, and Anne’s face falls back into blankness as soon as she’s alone again.
I force myself to turn around and go back to my office before I do something reckless.
The rest of the day drags on with me sitting uselessly in front of my computer, unable to get a single thing done. When I finally look up again, it’s already evening, dark enough outside that I’m sure everyone has gone home.
I grab my jacket and head out. The parking lot is nearly empty when I reach it, just a few cars scattered across the spaces. I’m halfway to mine when I notice Anne’s at the far end of the lot.
She’s still here? At this time?
Just then, I hear footsteps sound behind me, and I turn.
Anne is walking out of the building, bag slung over her shoulder, head down as she scrolls through her phone. She doesn’t see me at first, too focused on her screen, and I watch her approach with my throat tight. She looks exhausted—not merely tired but bone-deep weary.
The words come out before I can stop them. “Long day at work today?”
She stops and looks up. For a moment when our eyes meet, I see something flash there—anger, maybe, or else fatigue so complete that it has swallowed everything else.
“Yeah.” The single word is clipped.
Then, she’s moving again, heading for her car, unlocking it with a beep that sounds too loud in the quiet lot. She slips intothe driver’s seat, starts the engine, and pulls out without another glance in my direction.
I stand there watching her taillights disappear, then exhale the breath I’d been holding since I last spoke.
She’s avoiding me. Of course she is. Even when we were kids, she was always very respectful of other people’s boundaries, and now I’ve set one between us. A boundary based on a fucking lie.
I get in my car and drive home on autopilot. My apartment is dark when I arrive, and I don’t even bother with lights. I just head straight for the kitchen, pour three fingers of whiskey into a glass, and down it in one burning swallow. My tie ends up on the floor, jacket flung over the back of the couch, and I stand at the window staring out at the city lights below while my mind replays every time I’ve seen her over the last three weeks.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I see those dark circles around hers. I see the way her face carried a heaviness when she looked at me in that parking lot and walked past me like I was a piece of furniture. I should be relieved; this is what I wanted, after all. But it haunts me even in my dreams.
The next day follows the same ridiculous pattern of going to work and struggling to focus. My hand keeps tapping one side of my laptop as agitation eats away at me. It ultimately wins; I push back from my desk and go down to the break room for “coffee.”
But as soon as I step inside, I freeze.
Anne is there, sitting at one of the small tables in the far corner, a takeout container open in front of her. There are several other staff members around, chatting in small groups, but she’s alone. Completely isolated in a room full of people.
She glances up, and our eyes meet as I stand there. After blinking once, she looks back down at her lunch.
I force myself to move, crossing to the coffee maker, pouring a cup, and adding nothing to it. I turn around, lean back againstthe counter, and sip slowly while my attention stays locked on her. I try to make it look casual.
She’s not actually eating. Just pushing the food around with her fork, moving it from one side of the container to the other in slow circles. Her eyes are unfocused, staring at nothing, and the blankness in her expression makes my chest feel too tight.
I’ve seen looks like that before. Back with the organization, during the worst of it, I saw people slip into this type of listless depression. Saw them stop eating, stop caring. Saw the light go out of their eyes right before they decided it was better to end their lives themselves.
But that’s not Anne. She wouldn’t—
The thought barely forms in my head when I see her stand abruptly, taking her barely touched food and tossing it in the trash. Then, she walks out of the break room without a word to anyone.
My heart pauses, then beats fast. I don’t think; I just drop my cup in the sink and follow her.
