The smile

Elliot had always been told he was “a little off.” He smiled too long, spoke too loudly, and laughed when no one else did. But he was trying,really trying,to get better at reading people.

He practiced in front of the mirror every night: a smile that seemed friendly but was it too friendly? He could never tell what people found to be the right amount of human. He’d practice conversations, repeating greetings, facial expressions, small talk. Sometimes he’d record himself, playing back his voice to hear what “normal” sounded like.

He’d gotten better, he thought. The grocery cashier didn’t flinch as much anymore. The barista at the coffee shop didn’t avoid eye contact when he thanked her. Progress.

When the new girl at work, Maya, smiled at him in the break room, he took it as a good sign. Maybe he had finally gotten it right. She didn’t back away when he asked about her weekend, and she even laughed when he joked about Mondays,jokes he’d rehearsed for weeks, whispering them to himself until they sounded natural. That meant she liked him, right? It had to.

He started noticing things about her. She wore her ID badge clipped just below her collarbone, not at the waist like everyone else. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo. She always drank her coffee black. She hummed, sometimes, when she thought no one was listening.

These were clues, he thought. Signs. If you paid close enough attention, people told you everything without words.

The next day, he brought her a coffee,black, the way she drank it yesterday and the day before. She blinked, surprised, but smiled again and said, “Oh, you didn’t have to.”

He took that as encouragement.

He was actually making a friend.

By the end of the week, he’d learned her lunch schedule, joined her at the table, and stayed even when she said, “I’ve got to get back to work.” He thought she was just being polite. Everyone was always polite before they got comfortable.

The following Monday, an HR email appeared in everyone’s inbox:

Friendly reminder to respect coworkers’ boundaries.

Elliot frowned, glancing at Maya’s desk. She wasn’t there.

He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? He didn’t think so. He was just making friends, well, a friend. His first real one.

He decided to make it right. He waited outside after work, holding another coffee. The air was cold, his breath clouding in the streetlights. He rehearsed what he’d say: I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to. I just thought we were getting along.

When she came out, her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m tired,” she said. “I just want to go home.”

He laughed nervously, tried to explain himself, but she was already walking faster. So he followed, still talking, desperate to fix the misunderstanding.

When the police lights flashed red and blue against the dark street, he froze. The coffee spilled over his hands, burning and sticky. He stood there, staring at the puddle spreading between his shoes, and finally realizedtoo late, that the smile he’d been chasing hadn’t meant what he thought at all.

But Elliot didn’t stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t.

The next day at work, her desk was empty again. HR told him she’d “decided to take some time off.” They said it kindly, their eyes darting toward the open door where someone else was pretending not to listen.

He nodded, pretending to understand.

But that night, he dreamed of her, standing in the break room, coffee in hand, her smile soft and knowing. She said his name the way people do when they’re happy to see you.

When he woke up, his pillow was wet.

He started checking her social media. She’d locked most of her profiles, but not all of them. A few old photos remained: her in a park with friends, her with her dog, a picture of a streetlight reflected in rain puddles. He liked that one the most. It looked like loneliness. It looked like how he felt.

He started taking walks at night, through her neighborhood. Just walks. Quiet ones. He didn’t go up to the windows or anything. He just needed to see the light on in her apartment. Proof she was still there.

Some nights, it was dark. Those nights were the hardest.

He began leaving small things for her. A new mug on her front step. A folded paper crane with her name written in tiny letters on one wing. Just things to say: I’m sorry. I’m still thinking about you.

He was sure she’d understand.

A week later, someone knocked on his door. Two police officers. They were polite but firm. There had been “concerns.” They didn’t say who filed the report, but he knew.

He apologized to them, explained it was all a misunderstanding. He was just being friendly. The officers looked at each other but didn’t say much. They warned him to stay away from her home, from her workplace, from any contact.

He agreed. Of course he did. He didn’t want to get her in trouble.

The next day, he didn’t go to work. He couldn’t. The office would be too quiet without her. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the refrigerator hum and thinking about how easily people misunderstood things. He’d only ever wanted connection. He’d only ever wanted someone to see the version of him he was trying to be.

He thought about the mirror again, the one in his hallway where he practiced smiling. He stood in front of it now, watching his reflection grin back.

It looked wrong. Crooked.

He tried to fix it, tilting his head, adjusting his mouth. The smile didn’t change. It just stared back, stretched and hollow. He thought of Maya again, the way she’d smiled at him that first day. Maybe she had seen something in him after all. Maybe she still did.

The next morning, his desk at work was cleared. HR said he’d been “let go.” They didn’t give a reason. He walked home in the rain, clutching the cardboard box that held his things, his coffee mug, his notepad, the paper crane he’d made for her. The city shimmered, slick and distorted.

As he passed a row of darkened windows, he thought he saw her reflection in one. For a moment, he stopped breathing. She was standing there,same hair, same expression,watching him.

When he blinked, she was gone. He smiled, unsure if he’d imagined it. Maybe she wanted him to see her. Maybe this was another signal.

That night, when the phone rang, he didn’t answer at first. But the ringing kept coming, slow, rhythmic, deliberate. He finally picked up.

Silence.

The line clicked dead.

He stared at the phone for a long time, the dial tone humming like an insect in his ear.

Then he smiled again, small and certain.

At least she’d called.