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There was a dent in the fridge door. I slammed it once, right after she said “stay.”

She ended the video a second before the timer hit zero. She always hated clean endings.

The playlist in the background changed songs every 30 seconds. She skipped tracks when she couldn’t handle lyrics.

The shelf leaned left. I broke it leaning against it during a fight. She never fixed it.

The mirror behind her was foggy. She never wiped it — said it made her look softer.

Her hand trembled for a split second when she reached back. She did that when remembering how things used to be.

The candle was nearly out. That brand gave her headaches, but I liked it. She burned it anyway.

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Laundry in the corner, forgotten — like this moment mattered more.

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When she said ‘baby,’ I flinched. Nobody else knew she used to call me that. It felt like the past slipped into the present.

Her shoulders curled in slightly — that was her quiet body language. The more I watched, the more it unraveled.

She tossed a scrunchie across the room — landed where I used to keep my books. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.

There was a pause in her voice like she almost said something she shouldn’t. I caught myself leaning closer.

She sniffed mid-sentence. Allergies? Or was it emotion leaking through? I caught myself leaning closer.

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