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The jacket on the floor had my initials on the tag. We swapped jackets once in spring.

The lighting flickered in the same pattern as her old place. Cheap wiring. We used to laugh every time it buzzed.

Her left sock had a hole near the toe. She used to say it was lucky. I thought it was lazy.

She tucked her hair behind her ear four times. Her old nervous tic when she felt watched.

She hummed a melody out of tune. It was the jingle from that show we binge-watched drunk.

That breath she took — sharp, then long. Same one she used to take before saying something hard.

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

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That curtain behind her was sewn by my grandma. No way she still has that. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.

She leaned into the mic and whispered ‘don’t go.’ She used to say that at dawn. It felt like the past slipped into the present.

Her breathing slowed as she spoke. That’s when she was holding back. No part of that moment felt fake.

The beanbag in the corner still had my initials stitched into it. No other stream ever hit like this one.

She cracked her knuckles before speaking — always did that before lying. No part of that moment felt fake.

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