I roll over, punch the pillow into something vaguely workable, and stare at the ceiling.
Nothing.
I reach for my phone without thinking. It’s on the other pillow, face down like it’s ashamed of itself. When I flip it over, the light hits my eyes and I flinch, but I don’t put it away. I scroll because scrolling is easier than being alone with my brain.
Camera roll first, then socials.
Game photos—someone tagged me, a fan account, a blurry shot of me at the free-throw line with my arms up like I’m somebody important. I zoom in and immediately regret it. My expression looks… serious. Focused. Like I know what I’m doing.
I almost don’t recognize myself.
Next.
More photos. More angles. More proof that this is happening whether I’m ready for it or not. Then a screenshot of a text thread with Marco where he’s roasting me about a missed dunk. A photo of airport food. A stupid meme.
My thumb moves on autopilot, and a picture of us pops up. Me and Rafe on the bed in a Vegas hotel room. Early days. The soft part of the year before everything got loud. We’re laughing at something. I can’t remember what. His head is tipped toward mine, curls falling into his eyes. My knee is pressed against his thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve been doing it forever.
Both our rings are on. The image isn’t posed or filtered. It’s us not trying.
I send it to him before I realize what I’m doing. I want him to see this moment too. Our love.
It’s simply us. And God—he looks so happy. I stare at it too long. The room feels colder.
My thumb hovers over the screen, almost like if I hold still, the picture might turn into a video and I’ll hear his laugh again. Hear him breathe next to me. Smell his stupid cologne that hepretends he doesn’t wear. Then my eyes flick to the corner where the date is. And my stomach drops so fast I swear the bed tilts.
No.
No—wait.
I sit up so hard the sheets slide down my chest. My heart starts pounding like I just got subbed into a close game. I hit the photo info again. The date doesn’t change.
My mouth goes dry.
I swipe back through the photos faster now, like I can outrun what I’m about to realize, but it’s already there, waiting. I open my calendar. My hands feel clumsy. Too big. The loading wheel spins.
Come on.
The month pops up. And there it is. The little marker. The date circled in my mind like it’s been branded there since the day we said it.
Our first anniversary.
Already gone. Already past.
I stare at it like it might blink. Like it might saypsych. It doesn’t.
My throat tightens. I check it again. Then I check it again like the numbers might apologize and fix themselves if I humiliate myself enough. They don’t. We missed it. Completely.
Not a “Happy anniversary, babe” text at midnight. Not a quick call. Not even a sleepy voice note. Nothing.
My chest caves in with a weird, slow weight. There’s no anger swirling, nor is it the sharp kind. It’s just hollow, like someone knocked something loose inside me and now it’s rolling around in the dark. I sit with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen until my eyes burn.
A year.
A whole year married.
And we didn’t even notice it happen.
A laugh tries to come out of me—this little broken sound that isn’t funny at all—and I swallow it back down. I press my thumb into the edge of my phone so hard it hurts. I want to tell myself it’s fine. I want to tell myself it doesn’t matter, because it’s a date and we’re not the kind of couple who needs grand gestures and?—
