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She shifted her weight from one hip to the other — not from comfort, but from instinct.
She pushed her fingers into her palm. That grounding thing the therapist taught us.
The doorknob clicked once, then again. She always checked twice before locking.
The poster on the wall had a rip on the top corner — from the night we made love with no time to care.
Only someone from here would catch the faded poster behind her — that band never toured outside the county. I couldn’t believe it either.
There was a smudge on the lens, not from dirt — from the same thumb she used to wipe her eyes.
The glass of water was untouched. She poured it for show, not for thirst.
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She tossed a pillow that hit the camera — clumsy, like she always was in bed. No part of that moment felt fake.
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She reached back to fix her hair and exposed the tattoo she used to hide. No other stream ever hit like this one.
The tone of her ‘hi’ wasn’t performance — it was recognition. It felt like the past slipped into the present.
She tapped her nails three times. Always three. Even during arguments. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.
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