How do you feel right now?
Stories for the hours nobody sees.
Same library table, four years later, and my own handwriting is already in the margin, mid countdown, waiting to be answered.
I left before last call sure I'd dodged it. Then I heard the cab split three ways through the door that hadn't shut yet.
I let myself into my parents' kitchen after they're asleep, eat what she leaves out, and wash it before I go. Tonight there's a spoon already set out.
I take the stairs past 4C every night, photograph the same crooked doormat, and never once knock on her door.
The deposit she owes me still shows pending, eight months on. Some nights I open the app just to almost send the reminder, and stop.
The family plan shows her recently played. Three nights straight it's been our childhood playlist, right at 2am, and I haven't said a word.
I call your old number sometimes. Not to reach anyone, just for the second of quiet before the voicemail.
The notification came at 1:53. It's her birthday, wish her well. She's been dead since October.
I found out from a ten-second story at the airport. So now it's 2am and I'm writing the calmest, most devastating message I will never send.