𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒. He hadn't always been like that, but he tried not to dwell too much on that fact, not wanting to think too much on the reason why he was now; he knew exactly why, but that didn't mean he wanted to remember. He didn't want to remember lots of things.

Just before his thoughts could wander too far, a sound jolted him back to reality, reminding him why he had been lamenting on his newfound observational skills in the first place. Refraining from tapping his fingers on his desk, he leaned closer to the division between his cubicle and the one on his right, straining to hear.

Of course, there wasn't much reason to strain, it didn't take a genius to decipher the sounds coming from the other side of the wall; it was crying.

Leslie didn't like crying. He wasn't the type to cry when other people did, but he certainly wasn't the type to just sit there and watch with no emotion, and while he wasn't the kindest soul in the world, he was never one to see someone crying and laugh. Just like every other person, he simply didn't like crying, whether it was him doing the crying, or someone else. It made him uncomfortable when someone else cried, feeling helpless to do anything, unsure of how to comfort, and he felt helpless when he cried, unsure of how to find comfort.

He didn't know why he made a habit to listen to the crying.

It wasn't a sick fascination, or some twisted sense of pleasure, but a twinge of guilt that didn't belong to him, yet did all the same. It was a feeling of helplessness that he welcomed like an old friend, a new acquaintance, really, but one that stuck around enough to become family very quickly on. But tagging along with it was the newfound sense of commitment to the new life he was creating for himself, as well as the new himself that was still being formed.

Whatever it was that was stirring within him, it was strong enough to keep him listening and observing the crying woman in the cubicle to his right.

Leslie wondered if anyone else could hear her crying—they must have, while she succeeded in staying quiet, there was only so many sobs she could stifle at a time—but there were far more questions swirling about that a concern as to how long people had let this sit wasn't at the forefront of his mind for very long, though it was a pressing enough concern for him, if only to allow the guilt and desperate helplessness to find something to latch onto.

He was rather addicted to the pain he felt whenever his heart twisted.

When he was young, he had never understood the concept of hearts breaking. Whenever anyone said that their heart broke, he wondered how they knew it was broken; he had broken his arm once when he was six, and that had hurt tremendously, and his stomach had hurt many times throughout his young life, but he hadn't been able to fathom what it was like to feel a heart break.

Then he felt it. He couldn't remember what had made him sad enough to feel it, but he felt the twinge and twist in his chest, and instantly knew. It didn't hurt as much his arm or his stomach, but he figured it simply wasn't as bad as it could have been—he would later prove his hypothesis correct, but that wouldn't be for many years.

But after the first feeling, he had sought it out over and over. He had dwelled on what made him sad long after the tears had dried, simply reveling in the feeling, wringing it out until there was nothing left to feel. He wondered if that made him strange, but his mother told him that, so long as he understood not to hurt himself or other people, there was nothing too strange about liking a feeling, even if it did come from sadness.

He didn't like the sadness, he just liked the feeling. It was the same way he liked feeling nervous, at least when he was younger, about the same age, still in grade school. The way his stomach fluttered and heart raced, he liked being nervous the same way he liked feeling his heart ache.

He didn't like feeling helpless. It didn't give him the same pleasant feeling heart ache and nervousness did. He didn't feel very nervous anymore, and he stopped liking it once he reached middle school, but he hadn't felt heart ache many times throughout his life, but when he did, he always liked it, in the twisted way people looked at pictures of their ex long after they had broken up and moved on.

In the way that he hated it so much, yet couldn't seem to stop feeling it. He had liked it innocently as a child; that same child wouldn't have fathomed replaying the heart ache to hurt himself, yet he did it now, even if he didn't like to dwell on the matter.

He liked it in the way that he could control it. Liked when he could stop whenever he wanted. He detested it when he couldn't. When he was helpless to the feeling. It seemed everything was connected in the end; that was what his mother always said.

He didn't talk to his mom about it anymore. He didn't talk to his mom period. She wouldn't call it strange if he did, but rather, 'unhealthy,' and he didn't need that. Not now.

He'd let her fuss over his mental health once he was finished. Besides, he had to worry about her; it had been some time since he had even bothered to try, he owed it to her to be the first to fuss.

The sound of shuffling to his right broke him out of his thoughts—the thoughts that he had fought so desperately to keep in line—and he went back to his work, sliding partly out of his cubicle to catch sight of the woman as she made her way to the bathroom.

He hadn't seen her stand since he had seen her sit, and she never stayed in the bathroom for longer than ten minutes. Despite the crying, there always seemed to be the sound of keys typing, and while he couldn't see, Leslie didn't think it was a stretch to say that she was good at her job; at the very least, she took it more seriously than others there.

He didn't know her as a person, but she had seemed rather nice from what he had seen, and he had to wonder why no one ever seemed to care that she was crying. Maybe they really didn't hear, but he was never known for his observational skills before, and they barely reached the bare minimum now.

He sighed as he glanced over to the clock, seeing that it was almost time for lunch. Most people went to eat in the break room, needing to stand and talk to others, and there was never so much work that people needed to eat at their desks; Leslie ate at his desk because he didn't feel ready to make friends and socialize.

The woman to his right would sometimes head to the break room, pulling herself together, but there were times where she simply ate at her desk in silence, or made a phone call to check in on someone who, at times, didn't pick up, instead leaving her to leave a voicemail, forcing herself to sound much happier than she was.

Leslie couldn't help but pay attention, it was like a car crash, it was too tragic to look away from.

Glancing towards what he could see of the cubicle, his chair pushed out much farther than it should have been, he could see photos of the woman with a teenage boy, the two making silly faces at the camera. He couldn't see all the pictures, but she seemed happy. There wasn't much else there, and he couldn't see any food.

Before he could get a closer look, he saw her making her way back, staring down at the ground, and he immediately pulled his seat back in, clearing his throat far too loud for his liking, glancing up at her as she moved to sit, giving her a small smile behind the hand covering his mouth.

She gave a polite smile back before sitting, sniffling as she went back to work. Leslie tried to do the same, but it wasn't long before it was time for lunch and everyone started standing and chatting, making their way over towards the break room.

Leslie sighed softly, reaching into his bag and pulling out his salad. He didn't particularly like salad, he only ever ate it if he had to, but he was working on eating healthy, and if he could handle the most difficult adversary, the others would be child's play.

As he started to eat, he listened to the woman, finding that there was only the sound of fingers on keys and the occasional sniffle. While he didn't quite know what eating sounded like—he didn't pay that much attention—all he had to do was pretend to take a stretch break, standing up and glancing over while his arms were pulled above his head, to see that she didn't have anything to eat.

Frowning, he sat back down, pulling in his chair. Glancing at his own food, he picked up his fork, playing with the leaves as he thought about what he could do, only to pause, making a face as a new thought entered his mind. Why should he do anything at all?

But memories soon flooded in, and it was a wonder why that thought even crossed his mind; there was a reason he was in that cubicle in the first place, and it wasn't because he needed a downgrade from his old job.

He pursed his lips, glancing towards the wall that separated himself from the woman on his right; he would figure something out.

º º º

Leslie had started keeping one earbud in while doing his work. He normally would keep both in, as many others in the office did, but ever since he started working on his observational skills, his right earbud was left to dangle by his chest, the audio configured to play all the audio only through the left earbud, leaving his right ear free to listen.

There hadn't been much crying that day, surprisingly, and Leslie was happy to hear. He was still trying to figure out what he should do, and had actually asked Cecelia that morning if she had any idea of what he could do.

"Aw, that's so sad to hear," the young woman had said that morning, the two of them making their way downstairs, "Have you actually spoken to her? I mean, I know some people would feel worse if people ask them what's wrong while they're crying, but maybe if she's not, you can just try and be her friend. Maybe that'll make her feel better and she can tell you."

Leslie hadn't been able to hide the uncomfortable expression fast enough, and Cecelia's raised eyebrow was more than enough for him to relent and explain. "I'm not...good at talking to people. Making friends and, you know, comforting. It's not—I'm not—"

For a man of his age, he sounded rather green to the entire concept of life, but Cecelia hadn't seemed to judge him, instead tilting her head and pulling her lips into a sympathetic smile, words coming out much softer than expected. "No one's expecting anything from you, Leslie. Not everyone's good at making friends. But we're talking, and I'm your friend, so there's no harm in trying, right?"

Leslie hadn't been so sure. Of course, he didn't say that to Cecelia; instead, he told her that she had a point, and he appreciated her vote of confidence. He genuinely did appreciate her vote of confidence, as well as her acknowledgement of friendship, but he wasn't sure that he could do the same thing with anyone else; he was fine with this one friend, even if he was almost old enough to be her father.

The sound of the shuffling caught his attention, and Leslie immediately pretended to work, glancing out the corner of his eye. He watched as the woman stood up, once again heading to the bathroom just before lunch, but as she neared the turn, the heel of her right shoe broke, sending her tumbling.

He started to his feet instinctively, a habit that he had never once had before, but started back when he saw she had caught herself on the edge of one of the tables, balancing on her other foot. She didn't seem hurt, save for her pride, and picked up her heel, sighing down at it, giving an apologetic smile over to the person in the nearest cubicle who offered their condolences concerning the broken high heel.

As the woman took a moment to gather herself, her head lowered, Leslie took the time to survey her.

His attention was drawn to her shoes, particularly the one in her hand. Glancing over, there was nothing out of sorts about it, but Leslie was a veteran when it came to scrutinizing, and it didn't take long for him to see the worn soles and creases in the sides and backs of the shoes.

From there, he saw the fraying in the ends of her cardigan. They were stretched in a way that screamed worn, and there was a slight tear on the inside of her sleeve by her upper right arm. She wore two necklaces, one much nicer than the other. The cheaper one was plain to see, at least for Leslie, who had learned to tell the difference.

The thoughts that initially ran through his mind were cruel and, if said out loud, would have gained him enemies from all sides. They were thoughts that he had never usually said out loud to begin with, but filled him with a shame that was newly adopted, a shame that he had forced himself to learn.

He watched as she picked up her shoes and, with a strained smile and a sigh, disappeared from view, continuing to the bathroom. He wasn't sure if he had imagined it, but before her head lowered, Leslie was sure he had seen her lower lip begin to tremble.

To think, he was almost sure she would get through the whole day without shedding a tear.

Because of the mishap, she was still in the bathroom when everyone started to break for lunch. As he watched them go, Leslie reached down to pull out his salad, same as usual, but paused before he peeled the plastic covering off.

Pretending to stretch, he stood up, peering over at her cubicle, searching for anything that could suggest that she had food to eat for lunch. She had a purse, but it wasn't big or full enough to hold food, and she never did get up to get anything from the fridge.

As far as Leslie could tell, she didn't have anything.

Leslie chewed on his bottom lip. This didn't usually happen. There had been many times when he had heard her eating, same as him, but it seemed that, for some reason, she wasn't bringing any food with her now.

Whatever her reason, Leslie had to wonder how she could continue working on an empty stomach and all her energy drained from crying. It seemed that her lunch breaks were exclusively for crying, and it made him uncomfortable to sit, fully aware, doing nothing.

Glancing around, he saw that everyone was either in the break room or minding their own business, which meant he was virtually invisible; that was why he was at that job in the first place.

Picking up his salad, he took a step towards the other cubicle, setting it down in an empty space by the keyboard. There was a plastic fork inside, so he didn't need to worry about providing one, but he paused before he went back to his seat, wondering if he should leave some sort of a note to let her know that the salad was for her.

He grabbed one of her brightly colored sticky notes that rested in the corner of her desk, clicking a pen and starting to write a note, only to run into another roadblock; he didn't know what to write.

He brought the pen to his teeth, a habit that he could never break, and thought about what to say. He tried to imagine what Cecelia would write, figuring that she was the poster child for kind people in his life, but any and all messages that came to mind made him too uncomfortable to write; he wasn't that kind.

Hearing someone walking back from the bathroom, he panicked, simply drawing a smiley face before sticking it on the plastic sheet cover of the salad, dropping the pen without much fanfare as he jumped back into his own cubicle, shoving both earbuds in and pretending to be caught up in something on his screen.

Out the corner of his eye, he watched the woman make her way back to her cubicle. Her head was bent low, but he could see that she had been crying, her hand raising absently to wipe at her nose. She paused just before she sat down, catching sight of the salad, and Leslie trained his gaze back to his screen, not daring to so much as look at her, afraid that she would take his salad the wrong way.

After a few moments, she finally sat down, pulling in her chair, and Leslie pulled out his right earbud. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, as he couldn't see her face, but after two long minutes of silence, he heard the sound of the plastic sheet being pulled from the top of the salad, then the covering of the dressing shortly after.

He smiled, mentally patting himself on the back as he truly went back to work, the sounds of chewing and crunching leaves a much better noise than that of crying. Though, from what he could tell of the occasional sniffle, the salad hadn't fixed her broken heel or whatever it was that had been bothering her the past few days.

But it had helped. That was all he could do. After all, a salad wasn't going make up for what he had done, or what had happened to her.

But it was all he could do, so he would do what he could.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

( 07.26.19 )

Sorry again for the short chapter, it's gonna pick up next time, I don't know why I planned the chapters this way, but here we are. I know we focus a lot on Leslie and his person, but it's honestly kind of interesting to write him and do a character analysis, he's a very interesting sort of person, I didn't expect him like this, but I do like him (I've given him a lot of my habits, such as talking to himself and liking the feeling of heart ache when he could control it.)

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!