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Too late.

Delivered.

Read.

No answer.

But she doesn't block me. And I'll take the fucking win.

The next day, I find out she's sick. Not through surveillance. I feel compelled to clarify that, even inside my own head.

I texted her in the morning.

Me:

How are you?

Three hours later:

Firecracker

I have a cold. I'm fine.

Fine.

Layla's favorite lie. But she replied. and my soul is singing.

I make soup.

Correction.

Carl makes soup.

I supervise.

Carl informs me supervision is not cooking.

I inform Carl his continued employment depends on respecting executive oversight.

Carl informs me, I'm an idiot.

Apparently everyone has become very comfortable lately.

An hour later, I'm standing outside Layla's apartment holding soup, cold medicine, tea, tissues, honey, lemons, and enough supplies to survive a minor respiratory apocalypse.

I knock. Nothing. I knock again.

“Layla?”

Shuffling. Locks.

Then the door opens approximately six inches.

She looks fucking miserable.

Hair piled on top of her head.

No makeup.