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She rested her head against the closet door. I carved our initials on the inside. I doubt she erased it.

She closed the curtain halfway through. She used to say the moon made her feel watched.

That scarf wrapped on the doorknob? I tied it there once — for reasons neither of us could explain.

She turned her head to the side like listening. That was the habit she picked up when I told long stories.

The flicker in her eyes? That’s not acting. That’s how she looked at me the first time I said I might stay.

The lamp buzzed faintly — fluorescent stutter from a bulb I bought three years ago.

She glanced away, but the trembling breath matched that night behind the laundromat. That crack in her voice wasn’t fake. Nothing about it was.

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She tells you about work while her hands undo something more urgent.

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The beat says one thing. Her lungs tell another story entirely.

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She had one sock on. She never wore the other one unless cold. It wasn’t just familiar — it was intimate.

The glass on her nightstand was fogged. She used to drink ice water before sleep. Every detail felt intentional.

She mouthed lyrics, out of sync. It was our song. She still knew every word. The more I watched, the more it unraveled.

Her tone shifted right before the climax. That pause was full of old meaning. No other stream ever hit like this one.

I saw the reflection of her old wall collage in the mirror. Each second pulled me back further.

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