The Broken Coffee Machine: A Narrative Fiction

He looked half dead half the time like it made no difference at all that he was still breathing. I had been constantly ordered to stay away, but there was some kind of feeling deep in my chest that forced me to be drawn to him. It was never my fault that I found myself standing closer than I should, checking up on him to make sure he wasn’t completely gone. Even if he someday despised me with all his heart, I’d still be there. It was my only purpose, in truth. A purpose that he came to regret I’m sure.

In the darkness of the unused break room, he sat there stone still, staring at the broken coffee machine that I had never seen work. It caused a sort of trance to come over him like he was remembering some deep dark secret that the world should never know. Strangely peaceful,

it made him seem approachable while simultaneously filling me with a sense of dread. I never dared to cross the line between that room and the empty hallway in fear that it would be the last line I ever crossed, but that other feeling that never ceased to control my body and mind eventually overpowered my own common sense. Before either of us realized, I was sitting next to him; my hand laid over his.

There was silence. The warmth of his hand was the only thing that mattered to me. Even if he grew irrationally angry, that feeling in my chest seemed to subside for the first time ever. It felt right... It felt like what I was meant to do since the beginning.

“You never listen, do you?” His voice didn’t sound as broken as he looked. The expression he had didn’t change either, but at least he didn’t go off on me. I had heard him speak so many times before, but never in the fragile state he seemed to find himself in all alone.

“I’m sorry, I... I know I’m not supposed to-”

“Don’t apologize.”

I did as he said and there was silence again, but I glanced up to look at his expression. Never changing. I wanted to make things better, and yet, all I could do is take his hand as he continued to stare. It wasn't enough for me but for him, it was sufficient.

His hand turned at the wrist as his fingers slid between mine.

"It’s not like I hate you, you know? I just don’t know how to act around you. I know you don’t understand, and I’m sorry for that.”

It was the first time he ever told me what he was thinking and the first time he ever apologized. Looking down at his hand intertwined in mine, I didn’t even want to understand anymore. He didn’t hate me. After all the cold stares, inverted existence, and constant berating from him, I finally understood that. “Xeph, I-”

“Shh,” He silenced me again, but much softer than before, “I’m happy you’re here with me. Just don’t say any more, please. I can almost go back. Holding your hand like this, I can almost deceive my own heart and pretend I’m not alone now.”

His words always contradicted what was really happening. The sadness he felt always seemed to come from nowhere. He wasn’t alone. I was right there beside him, and as far as I could remember, I had always been. Still, even if I felt like we were miles apart as I sat right next to him, I decided that I would accept that. There was always time to find the truth. There was always time to one day understand, but at that moment, he was happy with

me.

Never saying another word with a smile on my face, I joined him as we both sat stone still in the silence of the unused break room; staring at the broken coffee machine that would never torture anyone else but him.