Her hand stays on the doorframe after she has already decided to leave.

One foot points down the hall. Her shoulder does not follow. It is a stupidly small pause, the kind nobody could repeat later without sounding dramatic. She is close enough for him to catch it and far enough to act like she was checking the elevator light, or listening for someone behind her.

Then she goes. Keys drop somewhere. A door shuts. Somebody says, “You coming?” He is left with the worst version of it: too tiny to call out, too timed to forget.