If I looked close enough, maybe I could still catch the faint traces of lint drifting in the air from his clothes and his hair. He never vacuumed. His clothes were wrapped in scented trash bags and thrown into the backseat of someone else’s car. I sat at his desk, digits flitting across the screen and keyboard. Numbers and words turned into many little games and suddenly the table was far too small for this charade. A new day with a side of a strange cough and a glimpse of tea-stained mugs waiting quietly on the countertop. Little tired footsteps on porcelain became the melody I had grown accustomed to. I handed him his neatly packed things, and in exchange he lent me his ear. Then it turned to little blue bubbles. The strings connect us. Ma vacuumed his bed over twenty times in the morning before calling it quits. The traces of him were always overwhelming. It was always never enough.