He’s sitting not ten feet away, hunched deep over his desk in a way that looks like it hurts.
You can just see, through his thick lenses, the fall of his hair, his eyes squinted harsh in the amber half-light. Something in you begs the question— is he working too hard?
Of course he’s working too fucking hard, you think. What kind of obvious… Never mind that. You’ve always been one for fussing over him, and has it ever been quite necessary?
Well. He certainly wouldn’t say so.
The thought is bitter on your tongue, and let’s be honest, you can’t take much more of that. If it’s grating in your ears, turn up the radio. If it smells too sharp, light a cigarette.
He’ll be fine. He’ll insist.
You slink away, consolation prize held reluctantly in hand. He will need you eventually, and then.
Yes, then— then you might quit your old veneer, might walk those three steps, might reach for his hand. And that time, you hope, he will deign to give it to you. He’ll meet your eye.
Show you that pretty smile.
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