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Her eyes were red — not from makeup, not from smoke. From too many unsent messages.
She shifted positions slowly, like she didn’t want the memory to catch up.
The plant was wilting. She never watered it unless I reminded her.
She looked over her shoulder and smirked. The angle matched the old couch we used to break. That kind of alignment isn’t accidental.
She leaned left when stretching. That motion was muscle memory. I taught her that. I remember.
She lingered by the window a second too long. That’s where we used to smoke and whisper dumb promises.
The curtain swayed without breeze. I remembered the window never sealed properly.
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She scratched her ear while talking — always did that when nervous. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.
Her sigh at the end? That wasn’t staged. That was resignation. No other stream ever hit like this one.
The glow on her cheekbones? Reflected off the same mirror I broke once. Every detail felt intentional.
I recognized the hum of the old fridge in the background. Still broken. 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.
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