kaz â
â
surprise .   in the midst of fumbling with notes ,   mess of scribbled sheets ,   words of the unknown   he has yet to acquaint himself with ,   he stalls ,   incredulously ,   at the word ,   like she just acquired an audacity   to worsen disenchanting news ,   like his ankles are only standing   in the beginnings of the shallow shore   and he wonât have truly tested these waters   until heâs doused himself   up to the neck .   strange ,   since he already feels like heâs on his way   â   to drowning ,   upon enduring childâs play ,   with this mere feeling of first days ,   awkwardness prickling up his spine ,   the unclipped fingernails   of troublesome dread   tracing their way towards the nape of his neck ,   making first days more cumbersome than they have to be   â   for so little as a dry joke ,   he realizes âŚÂ   he realizes this and ,   when he does ,   he decides itâs best to just continue on ,   to not dwell on trivial matters   ( as much they pollute the bigger picture ) ,   especially not that of a passing quip ,   a thoughtless remark ,   now becoming only apart of the past tense .Â
for once ,   finds relief in the fact that his head hangs low ,   knowing he can carry on ,   play it off like it was nothing ,   pretend he was fixed by something   so little as a meddling stain   or questionable item found astray   â   mimicking a mental iteration of ,   what are you doing here ?   for all these sorts of elements provoke the same question ,   donât they ?   what is this doing here ?   what is she doing here ?
somehow ,   he gets so lost in thought   about it ,   he nearly forgets to hold the fort closed   against his stream of consciousness ,   against all his qualms ,   as they beg to bleed through the cracks .   and they find one ,   unconsciously allowing a   silent   shake of his head   as he goes about mindless tasks ,   like hauling out a binder ,  unaware to his own behavior   â   heâs more so focused   on refusing to look back at her   again .   instead ,   his back ,  gradually becoming bonded by cement ,   faces her ,   as if shoulders have eyes of their own ,   and they stare ,   knowing sheâs sitting there   to not work ,   but watch .
characteristically ,   he hates the small talk   â   just when he thought it couldnât get any worse ,   she lets herself continue on ,   perhaps out of courtesy ,   or genuine curiosity   â   does she truthfully care ?   for this ,   he stalls again ,   slowly ,   like a railroad train ,   interrupted by hindrance ,   not exactly mulling on the weight   of what can only be considered formalities ,   for she now stoops to the level of nothing significant   except a stranger ,   one he already knows all too well ,   one that perhaps knows just exactly how heâs been ,   or how he is ,   currently ,   as of right now .  Â
glancing up ,   he takes in the sun rays   that remain shining down ,   miserably sprucing up the flaws of this ill - willed sketch ,   seeping through the blinds   â   surely ,   not enough help to make light   of this situation âŚÂ   he acts   on the opportunity of a fruitless distraction ,   ignoring her question ,   stepping around the articles of clutter   and putting all of it between them ,   distancing himself away from her altogether ,   muttering ,   â need some damn light in here âŚÂ â   under his breath ,  like words are only prompted by rhetoric   and these lifeless conversations ,   impending ,   will only be full of idle comments ,   musings spoken aloud   and directed and acknowledged by no one   but themselves .   â i know they had you living out here for a while ,   but i didnât know   they had you holed up in here   like a bat . â
â
sheâs seen him unravel a hundred times before. perhaps it should be welcomed as a privilege: while the rest of the world sees the personas he projects (not always controlled or skillfully crafted but contained still within the confines of a role â be it a cop, be it a defender of justice, be it the penitent sinner), she gets to see the cracks beneath it. maybe itâs a curse instead â watching spiders crawl out of the spaces in between his good will and his haunted mind, knowing some of them carry her name (and yet maybe that is too egoistical of her â to think she had a helping hand in what looks like his undoing in slow-motion, while she was, most likely, a temporary parenthesis of dull motion sickness for him). but the discomfort is unavoidable: she sees the ways he tries to rearrange the space around them as if that could somehow magically make room for the proverbial elephant in the middle of the office. the nervous tapping of her pen against the table stops: once again, she is enraptured by him.
but her gaze then drifts off, deciding that giving him the benefit of a form of privacy might be better than hovering around him, not happy with just being present in his space. eyes focused on an empty corner of the report on her desk: fixating on the 90 degree angle of white, a single portion of pristine cleanliness to convince herself things can still be salvaged. but his muttering is white noise that doesnât quite induce any form of relaxation: broken static from an untuned radio, but the words sound familiar, the music is known â just forgotten, or distorted.
âlisten, kaz ââ the name rolls off her tongue in an unwanted mellow, gentle wave: it is not just a name, but a prayer, a call reminiscent of older times when three single letters could hold the weight of half a million questions their conscious languages couldnât utter. she recognizes it still, her own tone: it belongs to another her, aimed at another him, uncalled for. caught red-handed in her own concern, cam retreats, holds her mouth open for a split second in recollection of what she was supposed to say, half-frozen: then concedes victory to her own remorse, lets out a sigh, pulls back.
âi can ask for another office, if you think itâs gonna be betterâ. tapping resumes but slower, weak-willed â her eyes are skilled in their avoidance, never truly lingering over any detail, or motion of his hands that might convince her he does not, in fact, detest her. itâs much better if he does: itâll draw a neat, uncrossable line in between spaces that are now supposed to stay separate, if only for the sake of the case.Â
letting out a sigh, camille leans back and smiles. itâs a just-for-show kind of smile, but it holds a certain sweetness to it: or an apology, perhaps. as if wanting him to know that itâs okay â she never expected him to stay more than a minute, anyway. âthe captain doesnât much like us, but he seems like a reasonable man. i saw a spare office by the evidence room, so ââ











