She just stopped replying.
She needed her normal. Predictable.
Zion always left class ten minutes early on Thursdays. To the cafeteria.
She always took her black tote bag—the one with the side pocket that never zips.
Today was no different.
Tobi followed at a distance. No hoodie this time. Just a dull-colored tee and silence.
Zion sat in her usual spot, under the mango tree. Same table. Same plastic bottle of juice.
Tobi waited. Breathe. Circle slowly.
Her bag was on the bench beside her, gaping open.
Tobi timed it. Zion stood to greet someone. Hugged them. Turned her back.
Tobi moved.
One hand in the tote. Smooth, fast. She didn’t even look.
She walked away before Zion turned back around.
Back in her room, she locked the door.
It was a spiral-bound notepad. Old. Torn cover.
Most of it was filled with class notes. Doodles. Lyrics. Half-written grocery lists.
But in the middle…
Folded and flattened: a printout of Tobi’s short story proposal.
Not the version she shared.
A version she never meant to show anyone.
Her annotations. Thoughts. Cut plotlines.
Tobi stared for a long time.
Then grabbed her pen.
She started underlining. Circling.
You forgot again.
There. Paragraph four. Line three. Scratched out.
So why does she still have it?
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