A voice crackled through the speaker. "Ladies, maintenance is working from the sixth floor. You may feel a slight movement soon."
Neither of us answered.
Brielle leaned against the wall, looking drained. "I confronted him. He said I was being dramatic. He said I imagined things. Then today, I saw your name flash across his phone when he left it on his desk. The text said you were bringing his lunch."
My message.
My stupid, caring little message.
"So you got in the elevator because of me?" I asked.
"I was leaving," she replied. "I couldn't sit upstairs and watch him act normal. I didn't know you would be here."
I looked down at the lunchbox. It suddenly felt ridiculous, almost cruel. I had carried love into this building in a plastic container.
"What did he tell you about me?"
Brielle's shoulders sagged. "That you were cold. That you didn't love him anymore. That you only cared about the house. And that he felt invisible."
