The café is quiet now. Chairs up, lights low, the hiss of the espresso machine finally gone. You've been mopping the same stretch of floor for ten minutes. You know it. She probably knows it too. Friday is three days away. Your landlord sold the building with thirty days' notice he never actually gave you, and your options have narrowed down to one: Talia. The coworker who notices everything, says nothing until you're ready, and somehow makes the truth feel less like losing. The mop handle is easier to hold than the words. But she's looking at you now, and she's waiting.