Over Again ▷ May Parker

4 - WHAT CAN BE DONE

𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒. He hadn't always been like that, but he tried not to dwell too much on that fact, not wanting to think too much on the reason why he was now; he knew exactly why, but that didn't mean he wanted to remember. He didn't want to remember lots of things.

Just before his thoughts could wander too far, a sound jolted him back to reality, reminding him why he had been lamenting on his newfound observational skills in the first place. Refraining from tapping his fingers on his desk, he leaned closer to the division between his cubicle and the one on his right, straining to hear.

Of course, there wasn't much reason to strain, it didn't take a genius to decipher the sounds coming from the other side of the wall; it was crying.

Leslie didn't like crying. He wasn't the type to cry when other people did, but he certainly wasn't the type to just sit there and watch with no emotion, and while he wasn't the kindest soul in the world, he was never one to see someone crying and laugh. Just like every other person, he simply didn't like crying, whether it was him doing the crying, or someone else. It made him uncomfortable when someone else cried, feeling helpless to do anything, unsure of how to comfort, and he felt helpless when he cried, unsure of how to find comfort.

He didn't know why he made a habit to listen to the crying.

It wasn't a sick fascination, or some twisted sense of pleasure, but a twinge of guilt that didn't belong to him, yet did all the same. It was a feeling of helplessness that he welcomed like an old friend, a new acquaintance, really, but one that stuck around enough to become family very quickly on. But tagging along with it was the newfound sense of commitment to the new life he was creating for himself, as well as the new himself that was still being formed.

Whatever it was that was stirring within him, it was strong enough to keep him listening and observing the crying woman in the cubicle to his right.

Leslie wondered if anyone else could hear her crying—they must have, while she succeeded in staying quiet, there was only so many sobs she could stifle at a time—but there were far more questions swirling about that a concern as to how long people had let this sit wasn't at the forefront of his mind for very long, though it was a pressing enough concern for him, if only to allow the guilt and desperate helplessness to find something to latch onto.

He was rather addicted to the pain he felt whenever his heart twisted.

When he was young, he had never understood the concept of hearts breaking. Whenever anyone said that their heart broke, he wondered how they knew it was broken; he had broken his arm once when he was six, and that had hurt tremendously, and his stomach had hurt many times throughout his young life, but he hadn't been able to fathom what it was like to feel a heart break.

Then he felt it. He couldn't remember what had made him sad enough to feel it, but he felt the twinge and twist in his chest, and instantly knew. It didn't hurt as much his arm or his stomach, but he figured it simply wasn't as bad as it could have been—he would later prove his hypothesis correct, but that wouldn't be for many years.