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The sound glitched briefly — the same static buzz our old mic made when she leaned too close.

The wallpaper behind her peeled at the edges. She always said she’d fix it “next week.”

The blanket she wrapped herself in was hand-stitched. Her aunt made it — she only used it on bad days.

The floor creaked three times — in the same rhythm as the stairs in my old building.

You wouldn’t know unless you lived it: the chipped tile, her laugh slipping between beats, the way the camera stayed still — way too still.

The scent candle flickered. Same vanilla blend we used when pretending things were still okay.

She pressed the remote three times before it worked. That old habit never changed.

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There was a pause in her voice like she almost said something she shouldn’t. I caught myself leaning closer.

Her last expression wasn’t performative. It was like she forgot the camera was even on. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.

There were polaroids taped above her mirror. One of them had my silhouette in the corner. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.

Her lips moved out of sync — maybe from nerves, or maybe memory. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.

There were receipts pinned to the wall. I saw our movie stubs. The more I watched, the more it unraveled.

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