Marlene Deletes the Advice

Marlene had meant to go to bed. Instead, she was writing a plan for someone who had not requested a plan.

Her friend's private problem occupied three paragraphs in the draft. There were steps. There was a suggested conversation. There was an offer to contact someone on her friend's behalf, which looked generous until she read it twice.

She leaned toward the laptop.

“You need to—”

That was a confident beginning for a message from someone who could close the laptop and leave the consequences with somebody else.

Marlene selected half the draft and deleted it. The remaining half looked less bossy, but only because it had fewer words.

She changed “You should” to “You could.” For a moment she admired the improvement. Then she noticed it was still her plan, wearing softer shoes.

Her finger returned to backspace.

The room was quiet enough for each tap to sound unnecessarily decisive. She wanted her friend to know she cared. She also wanted, rather less attractively, to be the person who knew what to do.

At last the message field held one line:

“I'm here if you'd like a hand. Just ask.”

Marlene reread it. No questions fishing for details. No little assignment at the end.

She left it there, short enough for her friend to decide what happened next.