On a regular summer day, I watch from behind the shelves
while my coworker hopelessly works the counter.

He has jet-black hair, cold blue eyes, and a piercing on his right ear.
Sometimes, I catch him staring in my direction.

He looks lonely.
Like his mind lives at the bottom of the ocean floor.

Even after all this time working together, we’ve never introduced ourselves.
One talks, the other answers.
That’s just how it’s always been.

Customers’ conversations always freeze when they enter the store.
Maybe it’s the cold air.
Maybe it’s his resting “don’t talk to me” face.

I don’t think he’s noticed.

But I have to leave soon.

There’s a place far above this one —
where red strings twist and quiet hands guide fate.
Where time means little more than a date,
and I’m the one who gives the commands.

My countdown ticks lower with every passing day.

I think he’s starting to catch on.
He sees me checking my phone.
I think he’s wondering why.

The truth is:
I don’t want to go.

So I’ll leave a present behind —
for him, and him alone.

Each night, I collect my red strings.
I weave and weave, one strand at a time.
A bracelet made only for him.

On the final day, before I leave this world,
I’ll tuck it into the cash register —
a quiet goodbye.
A gift for him to find.

Now that I’m gone,
after ascending far above,

I can still feel the light touch of snow.
The silence of the store.
The ache he tries not to show.

I feel what he feels —
but I know he feels it more.

Even if he doesn’t know
that I’m still here,

I’ll always be on his wrist,
wrapped snug and tight.

If I ever come back down,
we’re sure to meet again.

I’ll wait for that day to come.

Be ready for me then.