I Went to Return My Neighbor’s Pliers – When He Opened the Door, My Legs Gave Out and I Shouted, ‘What Does It All Mean?!’

“I just want someone to stay,” I said softly.

“Even if they’re scared.”

We talked longer than I expected.

I asked him about the apartment, his work, and his tools. He used to be an engineer but left after the accident.

“You don’t seem like someone who talks much,” I said.

“I’m not. But you’re not someone who asks for help easily either.”

That made me laugh softly.

“I used to.

I used to be the kind of person who wanted to be seen. I don’t know what happened.”

“You still are, Simone. You’re here, aren’t you?” he said, tilting his head.

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at me like he was trying to find the right edge to a delicate truth.

“Because you’ve spent too long shrinking just to fit inside someone else’s outline.”

The words hit me like a bruise I didn’t know I had.

“You don’t say much,” I murmured. “But when you do, it cuts.”

When I stood up to leave, the light was softer, golden. The city outside had started to hum again.

Jake picked up the pliers and tucked them into a drawer.

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