Three days ago, my bathroom started leaking.
It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a slow, stubborn drip that echoed in the silence. One drop. Then another. By the time midnight arrived, the sound felt louder than it should have, filling the apartment the way Benjamin’s absence always did.
Three days ago, my bathroom started leaking.
The pipe was hidden in the far corner under the sink, tucked away like it didn’t want to be found. I pressed a towel against it. Then another. I crouched there in my pajamas, hair falling into my face, staring at the problem like it might solve itself if I looked hard enough.
It didn’t.
I opened my phone and started searching. Google. YouTube.
Some home repair blog written in cheerful fonts that promised, “Anyone can fix this in five easy steps!” I followed links until I landed on a dusty Reddit thread where a user named PipeWitch1979 suggested wrapping the pipe with an old bedsheet and duct tape.
I stared at the screen and muttered,
“Sounds like… science. Let’s do it, Simone.”
I did exactly that.
It still leaked.
“Let’s do it, Simone,” I muttered again, mostly to keep myself from crying.
My husband would’ve fixed it.
Benjamin always fixed things—quickly, calmly, without drama, without needing instructions. He would’ve crouched down, tightened something, and said, “There. Done.”
But Benjamin was somewhere over the ocean again.
Sydney? Singapore? Tokyo? I honestly couldn’t tell anymore. He used to correct me when I got it wrong. He stopped doing that months ago.
I called him anyway.
Straight to voicemail.
“Come on, Ben,” I whispered to the empty room. “Where are you when I need you most?”
He was still somewhere over the ocean.
So I sent a text instead.
Bathroom’s leaking again, Ben. Miss you. Can’t wait for you to come back home soon.
Unread.
The little gray checkmark stared back at me like a quiet accusation.
I hesitated, then did something I had 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 didn’t expect an answer. It was late. People had lives. Families. Someone to roll over toward in bed.
But a few minutes later, my phone buzzed.
I can come up, Simone. No worries. What number are you again?
It was from Jake. Second floor.
Jake.
I’d seen him maybe four or five times in the elevator. Tall. Broad‑shouldered. Quiet. Always wearing long sleeves, even during heatwaves. The kind of man who looked like he didn’t waste words unless they mattered.
Third floor, door 9. Thank you, Jake. I really appreciate it.
He arrived in under ten minutes, holding a black toolkit like it was part of him. He nodded once when I opened the door and stepped inside without ceremony.
No small talk. No awkward smiles.
He went straight to the bathroom, knelt down, and examined the pipe.
When I asked if he needed anything, he said,
“No. Just space.”
When I offered tea, he shook his head.
He worked with quiet focus, hands steady, eyes sharp. Watching him felt strange. Comforting. Almost unsettling. It reminded me of something I hadn’t felt in years—the feeling of being taken seriously.
Fifteen minutes later, the leak was gone.
Just… gone.
Like it had never existed. Like the problem had been my imagination, created by loneliness and late‑night silence.
Jake stood, wiped his hands on a cloth, and finally said,
“If it drips again, call me. Not the landlord. That’ll take too long. And I know what I’m doing.”
I didn’t ask why.
I didn’t ask how.
Then he left.
He forgot his pliers on the bathroom counter.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the window, and there they were—heavy, worn, clearly loved by someone who used them often. I picked them up and held them longer than necessary.
They didn’t belong here.
But lately, neither did I.
I told myself I’d return them right away.
I didn’t.
Something about that night stayed with me. It wasn’t the leak. It wasn’t even Jake, exactly. It was the way he showed up without hesitation. The way he fixed something without making me feel small for needing help.
It wasn’t attraction.
It wasn’t longing.
It was the quiet realization that I had stopped expecting anyone to help me at all.
Three days later, Benjamin finally called.
His voice was cheerful. Tired. Distracted.
“Flight got delayed again, Sim,” he said. “You good?”
“The bathroom’s fine now.”
“Great. You fixed it yourself? Well done.”
“No,” I said softly. “I asked a neighbor for help.”
There was a pause.
“That’s… nice of them.”
That was it.
I didn’t tell him Jake’s name.
I didn’t mention the pliers still on the counter.
I didn’t ask if he’d read my message from three nights ago.
And I definitely didn’t ask if he still missed me—or if he could feel the difference between silence and distance.
That afternoon, I finally picked up the pliers and walked downstairs. Jake’s door was slightly open. I hesitated, then knocked lightly.
The door creaked wider.
Inside, I saw everything.
A framed photo turned face‑down on the table.
A pale pink cardigan draped over a chair.
A mug full of hair ties.
A silver ring beside a melted white candle.
None of it should’ve mattered.
But the room felt heavy. Still. Like life had paused here and never quite restarted.
My knees buckled. The pliers slipped from my hands and hit the floor.
Jake stepped into view.
“Simone?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
I stared past him, words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“What does it all mean?!”
He blinked. “What does what mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said breathlessly. “I don’t know why I’m here. I haven’t felt like myself in months. You fixed something I couldn’t, and now I’m standing here losing my mind because I saw a ring in a dish.”
My voice cracked.
“Why am I the only one falling apart?” I whispered. “And why do I feel safer in your hallway than I do in my own marriage?”
Jake didn’t try to fix me.
He just stepped aside.
“Come in, Simone,” he said quietly.
And I did.
We talked.
About absence. About grief. About love that doesn’t leave loudly—it just fades.
“My partner died,” he said simply. “Car accident. She was thirty‑one.”
“I just want someone to stay,” I whispered. “Even if they’re scared.”
“Sometimes people don’t leave because they don’t care,” Jake said. “They just don’t know how to stay.”
When I left, the city hummed again. The light was softer.
At my door, he said,
“No one should have to come back to themselves alone.”
That night, Benjamin texted again.
Flight delayed. I’ll keep you posted.
I turned the phone face down.
“I don’t think I know how to come back from this,” I whispered.
But inside the silence, something didn’t flinch.
Maybe breaking was just the beginning.
Maybe I was finally asking the question I’d been avoiding.
And maybe—just maybe—I was allowed to want more.