My fingers slide up the frame. Just under the top edge.
And there it is.
Pressed into the wood like a secret.
A thumbprint.
The fingerprint smudges beneath my thumb.
I press harder. Just once. My own mark covers his. Not erasing it—just claiming the space back.
The chain lock on the front door rattles softly when I pass it. I stop. Breathe. Unlock it. Relock it.
Twice.
The bathroom light flickers when I flip the switch. I don’t flinch.
The mirror’s fogged around the edges. No steam. No reason. I lean, watching the shape of my breath bloom across the glass like frost. My eyes are too big. My pupils swallow the colour.
The toothbrush cup is turned backwards.
It never turns backwards.
I don’t touch it.
I sit on the toilet lid, knees to chest, and wait.
A car passes outside.
The fridge hums.
A pipe ticks in the wall.
My ears won’t stop straining for a sound I’ll never hear.
I open my mouth. Close it. My voice doesn’t work here.
I unlock my phone. The screen glares at me like it knows.
Damien.
The name hovers in my recent search bar as if it grew roots there. No photo. No details. Just a black hole where his history should be. My thumb hesitates over it. I don’t tap.
I swipe away every tab and shove the phone under a pillow.
The vent above my bed whistles. I stare at it. It stares back.
The journal is still on the bedside table. Still wrong.
I don’t pick it up.
I slide it into the drawer and close it with my foot.
I lie back on the bed, blanket up to my chin, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The voice returns. Quieter now. Like it’s lying beside me, breathing in sync.
“He never left.”
