He came home, saw the empty rooms, the mess left behind. Turned in his two week notice at midnight. Went to do something careless, something so close to loosing it all so that he could feel alive enough, above the weighty feeling of being left.
His first instinct is to leave it all behind, jump over it, start a new, start far a away. Maybe he'll visit his sister.

Morning, in the parent's kitchen, standing by the window to the sound of the warming kettle. Twarog and sugar and tears for breakfast. The dairy soft and a little cool, the wave of quiet sorrow aided by the melting crystals of sweetness on her tongue, their crunch on her teeth.
The apple makes her cry again.

He looks away when she comes by, but she is so impatient.
I will find you, he says. Go away. Please go away. Please.
His smile is halfhearted and falls, as if he has no strength to hold it. Eyes red, under slept. A meeting request with his manager, open, about to be sent.

I wish the elevator with the mirror ceiling would close on me alone, take me gently down, below, as I look at myself, myself, hard, like he must see it.
His pain grips my throat, pours down my cheeks.