The rarity of it

Alex set the phone down,

face down on the table,

and didn't pick it up again.

I told them

about the interview,

about how I walked in

and already knew

I wouldn't get it,

about the way

the woman asked questions

that weren't really questions,

just ways of confirming

she'd already decided.

Alex didn't interrupt.

Didn't try to fix it.

Didn't say something like

"You'll get the next one"

or "It's their loss."

Just sat there.

Nodded once.

Let me finish.

When I stopped talking,

there was actual silence,

not the kind that's waiting

to be filled,

but the kind that means

someone heard you.

I didn't realize

until that moment

how rarely that happens—

how most people are

already composing

their response

before you finish

your sentence,

already measuring

how much of their own

suffering they can fit

into your story.

Alex just believed

that I was sad.

That it mattered.

That I didn't need

to be convinced

I had a right to be.

I'm not sure

what to do with that.