On My Knees, Quietly

I knew it was pathetic to be kneeling on the tiled floor of the café bathroom, scrubbing gum off the sole of her shoe with my thumbnail, but the thought of her wrinkling her nose at the mess and doing it herself was unbearable.

It’s funny how the body knows before the mind admits it. My heart starts racing before I even see her—before the door opens, before the bell rings—just the idea of her proximity makes my chest tighten like someone’s slowly turning a dial. I tell myself it’s anticipation, not anxiety. Devotion feels better when you give it a holy name.

I noticed the gum because I notice everything. The way she always drags her right foot a little when she’s tired. The way she taps twice on a table when she’s thinking. The way she never says thank you right away—there’s always a pause, like she’s checking whether gratitude is necessary in that moment. I’ve memorized that pause. I live inside it.

I’d followed her into the café because she looked stressed earlier, and stress makes her forget things. Stress makes her human, and when she’s human, maybe she needs me. I ordered her usual before she even reached the counter. Almond milk, extra hot, cinnamon shaken not stirred. The barista smiled at me like I mattered, and for a second. I let myself pretend that meant something.

Then she sat down and crossed her legs and that’s when I saw it—the dark smear, the tiny indignity clinging to her heel. My stomach dropped. How could the world let this happen to her?

So here I am, bathroom door locked, fluorescent lights buzzing like they’re laughing at me, my knees soaked because I didn’t think to bring a towel. I’m scraping and scraping, my nail bending back painfully, and all I can think is that pain is temporary but her comfort could be eternal. If I do this right, she’ll never even know there was gum. She’ll float through the rest of her day untouched, and I’ll have been the invisible hand that kept her clean.

I rehearse explanations anyway. I just noticed it and thought I’d help. Too much. It was nothing, really. Better. Self-erasure is more palatable.

When I finally get it off, my finger is bleeding. I suck on it without thinking, copper and sugar and soap mixing on my tongue. I press the shoe against my chest for a second—not in a weird way, I tell myself, just to steady my breathing. It’s warm from her foot. That warmth feels like a secret.

I return the shoe to where she left it, exactly angled the same way, and slip back into my seat before she notices I’m gone. My clothes are damp, my hands smell like disinfectant, my pulse won’t slow down. She looks up at me and frowns.

“Did you move my shoe?”

I freeze. My mind splits into a thousand frantic justifications, each one louder than the last. This is it. This is the moment where all of it pays off.

“No,” I say, soft. Careful. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Huh. Thought I stepped in something earlier.” Then she smiles, just a little, distracted, already gone again. “Anyway—can you spot me for lunch tomorrow? I’m kinda broke.”

The high hits me so fast I almost laugh. My chest floods with warmth, my spine tingles, the world sharpens into focus like this is what clarity feels like. Of course, I think. Of course I can. Money is nothing. Pride is nothing. I would sell my name if she asked for the receipt.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual, like my life didn’t just reorganize itself around that single request. “No problem.”

She goes back to her phone. The conversation is over. But I sit there, vibrating, replaying the smile, the way she said can you instead of could you, the way my existence briefly intersected with her need.

Outside, rain starts hitting the windows, heavy and relentless. I imagine myself out there later if she texts, waiting, soaked, justified. I imagine the ache and the cold and how good it will feel to endure it for her.

I tell myself this is love. I tell myself this is what loyalty looks like. And somewhere deep down, where the truth tries to speak, I silence it—because silence, too, is something I’ve learned to give very well.