She stepped barefoot onto the cold tile. She always said it grounded her after panic attacks.
She didn’t speak, but mouthed “I know” — like answering a question no one asked out loud.
She wore mismatched socks. Not on purpose. Just because her mind was somewhere else.
The window let in a breeze that made the papers shift. She hated that sound — unless I was there.
The ashtray had one half-burned clove cigarette. I quit. She didn’t.
The video lagged for a second. That glitch? Same as when her laptop overheated — because of the editing software I installed.
Her breath caught before she spoke. She always did that when she felt watched, even by memory.
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There was a half-empty soda on the desk. Same brand she always stole from me. No other stream ever hit like this one.
A flicker of red light crossed her wall. Same neon we used to laugh at from bed. I caught myself leaning closer.
The note on the corkboard said ‘don’t text him.’ I think it was still about me. Every detail felt intentional.
The desk was cluttered — chaos I once called charming. It felt like the past slipped into the present.
The echo in her video gave it away — same acoustics as the stairwell in my old apartment. Each second pulled me back further.
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