She looks over her shoulder mid-clip — like she felt you watching live., with urgency in every frame, like time’s running out
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I heard the neighbor’s dog barking — the same one that hated me. That alone told me she hadn’t moved far.
The way she turned off the light — with her foot — was a quirk I taught her.
She rubbed her thumb across her palm mid-sentence. The same way she did when she was trying not to shake.
She looked up at the end. No line, no sound. Just a look. The kind you feel in your ribs.
The bedsheet had creases like someone had been lying there right before she hit record.
She didn’t speak, but mouthed “I know” — like answering a question no one asked out loud.
She adjusted her bra strap twice, then didn’t again. She only fidgeted when she remembered me watching.
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A faded bruise on her arm made me pause. Not new. Not mine. Still hit hard. It felt like the past slipped into the present.
There was no music, just silence — the same kind we shared post-fight. No other stream ever hit like this one.
The timestamp on the video matched the time we used to FaceTime. Each second pulled me back further.
She tilted her head and mouthed something. I read the lips: ‘still here.’ I caught myself leaning closer.
The pillowcase had a tear on the right side. I made that tear during a tickle fight. Each second pulled me back further.
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