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Her bracelet caught on the fabric. She cursed softly. Only did that when she was too deep in her head.

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She tilted her head like she heard something. That was her way of stalling a thought.

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The tea kettle whistled too early. That brand always did. She kept it out of spite.

There was a band-aid on her finger. She always cut herself slicing avocados. I always offered to do it.

The pillow had mascara smudges. She cried lying down — always sideways, never on her back.

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A flicker of red light crossed her wall. Same neon we used to laugh at from bed. I caught myself leaning closer.

The painting was gone from her wall — the one I made in a panic during lockdown. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.

She mouthed the word ‘soon’ before the stream ended. Each second pulled me back further.

Her fingers hesitated on the keyboard. She used to do that before saying ‘I love you.’ The more I watched, the more it unraveled.

She smiled at nothing. Or maybe someone just off-frame. Used to be me. It felt like the past slipped into the present.

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