You cleaned out the desk drawer, and I saw what you kept: the dried-out highlighter you never threw away, the birthday card with the smudged signature, the sticky note that just says "call back Tuesday." I have all of these now. I'm going to need them.
The card said goodbye. Something in you did not.
So here is what I'll do around two a.m. The elevator you rode down for the last time will not reach the lobby; it will open onto the break room, which will now be a greenhouse, and the coffee machine that took your dollar for six years will be growing oranges.
Your coworkers will be there, all of them, even the one who left in spring, and nobody will mention that you don't work here anymore, because in me you never stopped. The cardboard box under your arm will be light as a paper lantern. You will set it down and forget it, which is allowed.
That last hug by the door, the one that ran a little long because neither of you wanted to be the one to end it: I'm keeping that going. I'll stretch it out until it becomes a hallway you can walk through. You'll pass every version of that room. Nobody turns off the lights.
The keycard they took back at the front desk still works in here. I checked.
I know the day ended before the feeling did. That's why they sent it to me. I'll finish the goodbye slowly, kindly, badly, the way you'd have done it if the clock hadn't been watching.
Then the light comes up gray through the blinds, and I let it all go loose, the oranges and the box and the hallway, and by the time you find your shoes I'll be nothing at all. You won't remember me. You'll just feel oddly forgiven. Good.
That was the whole job.