Author's Note: An experiment in minimalistic writing. I think I succeeded in the inducement of a wide variety of interpretations. Oh, and please note the heavy allusion.

His hat was covered in dust.

“So this is it,”

Her words fall flat in an otherwise empty apartment.

“It doesn’t have to be. You don’t—”

It was so full of clutter, and yet so unbearably empty.

“Doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Jake.”

She couldn’t move from her spot. She hadn’t even gotten her coat completely off yet.

“You’ll call, though, won’t you?”

She sighed, and shrugged her raincoat across her shoulders. The bottom wavered like a flag in the breeze, swaying next to her ankles. She bent slightly to retrieve her bag.

“I… I don’t think so.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. He could tell. She could tell that he could tell. “I’m sorry,” She said again.

“Yeah… yeah.” He wanted to stand up. He wanted to say something witty, something cool. He wanted to take a line out of some really great movie and repeat it, something that would make sense only to the two of them; something appropriate. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that they didn’t have many inside jokes, or pet names, or anything, really. She could tell by the way he stared at her. “Brett—”

“You shouldn’t call me that anymore.” She still hadn’t met his gaze. Her eyes instead focused on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. “You—it isn’t—you just shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s only fitting.” He winced and looked in the same direction. He didn’t mean for it to sound so bitter. “Look, I’m sor—” he cleared the lump in his throat. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right.” He should have apologized.

“Don’t apologize.” She said quickly. She made eye contact for the first time. “Please, just don’t.” It made things so much harder. So did his eyes. “You have no idea.”

He almost replied. He almost looked away. He almost stood up.

She dropped her bag. It thumped. Her eyes were watering.

“You have no idea.” She said it again, softly, she leaned against the frame of the door, her left hand covering her face. “…No idea.”

“Brett—” he finally stood up. He took a few steps toward her, reaching out. He wanted to touch her, comfort, reassure. He couldn’t. He was so close, though. So close.

“Don’t.” She whimpered. “Just don’t. You can’t. Please.”

She was right. He couldn’t. His hand reached out several times, but couldn’t bridge the gap between them.

She slid down the doorframe, collapsing at the base, her head buried in her arms, awash in tears. “You can’t.”

He observed her form in miserable silence. His hat was on the table, just a few feet away. The door was closer.

“I’m so—” he stopped. He shouldn’t apologize. It’d only make things more difficult.

The door had swung shut so long ago. She couldn’t move.

And she couldn’t stop crying on the floor of the empty apartment.