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?!’

But lately, neither did I.

I meant to return them immediately. But I waited. Something about that night sat with me longer than I expected.

It wasn’t just the silence or the leak. Jake’s presence had left a mark.

It was the way he fixed things without fanfare, without asking what I had tried, and without acting like I’d done it wrong.

It made me feel something I couldn’t name. It wasn’t attraction…

it wasn’t longing. It was something much quieter. Maybe it was the realization that I had stopped expecting to be helped.

The next time my husband called, it was three days later.

His voice was cheerful, tired, and very distracted.

“Flight got delayed again, Sim,” he said. “You good?”

“Great, you figured it out by yourself? Well done.”

“No, Benjamin.

I asked a neighbor for help. I posted it in the building chat.”

There was a pause.

There was nothing more to say after that. I didn’t tell my husband the neighbor’s name.

I didn’t tell him the pliers were still on our counter.

And I sure as heck didn’t ask if he still missed me, or if he noticed the difference between silence and distance.

Later that afternoon, I finally picked up the pliers, slipped on a pair of sandals, and walked two flights down. Jake’s door was slightly ajar.

I hesitated, then knocked lightly.

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