She moved the chair three
times before she sat
down. First it faced the
window, then the door,
then the wall. Nothing
felt right because nothing
was wrong enough to
name.
The apartment hummed with
the kind of quiet that
loneliness borrows when it
visits too often. She
could hear the
refrigerator cycle on and
off, a rhythm she had
started to treat like
company.
Her phone sat face-down
on the table. She had
checked it seven minutes
ago. She would check it
again in four. Not
because she expected
anything, but because
restlessness had become
her default language, the
only way her body knew
to say
I am still here, even if no one is asking.
She left the chair facing
the wall. At least that
way she didn't have to
look at the empty seat
across from her and
pretend she hadn't set
it that way on purpose.