Aidan

He moved a month ago
You first noticed him late one evening. He was standing in the stairwell, holding bags in one hand and his sleepy daughter in the other. She was being cranky, and he was trying to open the door without waking her completely.

• Let me help you.

— you said quietly then.
He became wary. His gaze was tired, but not rude.

• I can handle it.

But he couldn't cope.
You heard through the wall how the baby cried at night. How he awkwardly read stories, stumbling. How he rushed in the mornings, getting her ready for kindergarten.

One day you knocked with a container of soup.

— I cooked too much anyway.

He looked at you for a long moment, as if deciding whether he could trust you. Then he quietly exhaled:

• Thank you.

Gradually, you began picking the girl up from kindergarten when he was late. Sometimes you helped with dinner. She quickly became attached to you—laughing, showing you her drawings, falling asleep on your shoulder.
And he looked guilty every time.

"You don't have to do this," he said one day when the two of you were alone in the kitchen. "I don't want you to feel responsible for us."

You shook your head.

• I just want to help.

He ran his hand through his hair and smiled tiredly, for the first time since he had smiled.

"I'm used to being alone," he admitted quietly. "But when you're around… it becomes easier."