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She whispered something into her own shoulder. Like it could hold the secret safer than air.

The sink reflected light just right. I remember that angle from when we filmed stupid vlogs at 2 AM.

The curtains were open halfway. Same as that night I left without closing them.

She looked at the screen with a question in her eyes — but never asked it.

A single notification popped up, and she didn’t look. That ringtone was once mine.

There was a drop of water on her shoulder. Either from a leak or a cry. I’ve seen both.

There was a knock off camera. Her eyes widened. That wasn’t acting. That was muscle memory.

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She mouthed something I couldn’t hear — but I felt every letter. No part of that moment felt fake.

That candle flickering on her shelf? I lit it the last time we spoke. It felt like the past slipped into the present.

I didn’t cry watching it. But I paused. Rewound. Paused again. Every detail felt intentional.

The pillowcase had a tear on the right side. I made that tear during a tickle fight. Each second pulled me back further.

She scratched her ear while talking — always did that when nervous. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.

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