Her Diner Sign in the Corner
Her family's diner sign hasn't lit that harbor cam in twelve days. I still haven't texted, I just keep checking.
There's a public webcam on the harbor two towns over from where I grew up, put up years ago for surfers checking swell. I found it looking for something else entirely and I still open it some nights, not for the water.
In the bottom corner, past the pier, there's a building with a neon sign that used to be lit every night we were in high school. Mara's family owned it. I haven't texted Mara since her wedding, the one I couldn't drive up for, the one I said I was sorry about twice and then let go quiet.
I tell myself I check the cam for the town. The gulls, the parking lot, whatever's on the boards. But tonight I noticed the sign hasn't come on in twelve days and my stomach did something I didn't like, and I finally admitted what I'm actually doing every time I load that page. I'm not checking on a diner. I'm checking whether I'd still be the kind of person who'd know, if it went dark for good.
I have her number saved under her married name. I could ask in one line. Instead I watch the dark corner of the frame refresh itself, same and same and same, until I fall asleep with the tab still open.