So, I texted him instead:
“Bathroom’s leaking again, Ben. Miss you.
Can’t wait for you to come back home soon.”
He didn’t read it.
But I was desperate, so I did something I’ve never done before: I posted in the building chat.
“Hi, it’s Simone! Is anyone awake and familiar with plumbing? I have a leak and it’s getting worse.”
I wasn’t expecting a reply.
But when my phone buzzed a few minutes later, I saw that Jake from the second floor had replied.
“I can come up, Simone. No worries. What number are you again?”
Jake.
He was the neighbor I’d seen maybe four or five times in the elevator.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable. He was the kind of man who always wore long sleeves, even in heatwaves. I couldn’t recall if we’d ever spoken before.
“Third floor, door 9.
Thanks, Jake! I really appreciate it.”
Jake arrived in under 10 minutes with a black tool kit and nodded once before stepping inside. He didn’t offer any small talk or smiles.
He just walked into the bathroom, found the leak, and got to work.
He didn’t say much.
When I asked if he needed anything, he said, “No. Just space.” When I offered him some tea, he shook his head.
He worked with a kind of intensity I hadn’t seen in years, not in Benjamin, not in anyone. It made me feel strange and…
small, somehow. Like maybe I’d forgotten what it felt like to be taken seriously.
