Kristi.
Not the woman from the forums or the reports or the vote tally that snapped our world in half.
The woman in my kitchen.
With citrus zest on her fingers and sugar burned across her knuckles because she refused to wear gloves while experimenting with the Vakutan caramelizer. I’d teased her about it. She rolled her eyes and called me bossy. Then she laughed when I burned my own thumb showing her the proper angle.
Her laugh. Fragile and reckless.
That memory’s a razor under the ribs.
I close my eyes and lean back until my spine kisses the cool stone wall behind me.
“I told you not to get involved,” I murmur.
I’m not talking to the air.
I’m talking to her. The version of her that still lives in my chest, curled tight and wounded, refusing to leave.
“You said you understood,” I whisper. “That you saw what they were doing.”
She hadn’t said she was different. That’s what made it worse. She let me believe it.
The city below hums like a dying star. Transport rails groan. Flickering lights dance over rooftops like ghosts looking for someone to blame.
I flex my hands and stare at my palms.
These hands were meant for knives and fire, for building warmth out of raw things. For feeding people. Not for fists. Not for banners.
Not for this.
But I’ve been on protest lines for weeks. Led meetings. Drafted petitions. Screamed until my throat cracked.
And still, none of that feels as hard as watching her walk out that last time.
No goodbye.
No excuse.
Just gone.
She had the nerve to send messages afterward.
I didn’t open them.
Not because I was done with her.
Because I’m afraid I’m not.
If I hear her voice, I might forget what she did.
If I see her face, I might remember what it felt like when she looked at me like I was something sacred.
And I can’t afford that.
Not when they’ve marked our back door.
Not when I’m being watched.
