The light comes in pale and muted, but everything looks too sharp — edges too bright, shadows too clean. The windows sweat with humidity left from last night’s storm. I unlock the door, the key sticking for a second before it gives, the click echoing louder than it should.

The air is heavy, thick with the smell of wet soil and eucalyptus. The ceiling fan hums slow above me, stirring the scent instead of easing it. I switch on the lights, each bulb flickering once before settling.

I move through the morning by habit: refill the buckets, trim the stems, check the register. Every action lands a second late, like I’m moving underwater and sound can’t quite catch up. The water from the faucet splashes against my wrist — too cold, too sudden — and it startles me more than it should.

A spool of twine slips from my fingers and spins across the floor. The sound of it rolling feels too loud, cutting through the quiet like static. I watch it unwind, a long loose ribbon of beige against the tile. When it stops, I kneel to gather it, the movement slow.

My hands shake just enough that the twine slips once more before I can wrap it. I wind it tight this time, the fibers scratching lightly against my palm. The rough texture steadies me, gives me something to hold that doesn’t move.

The shop smells stronger today — sharper, like every flower woke up louder. The eucalyptus catches in my throat when I breathe too deep. I wipe my palms on my jeans and stand, listening to the cooler’s hum, the faint creak of the front sign shifting in the breeze.

“It feels like I’m borrowing the same day,” I think, “but everything inside it hums different.”

The air presses close. I wipe condensation from the front glass with the edge of my sleeve. Outside, sunlight scatters off puddles, turning the street to gold.

I glance toward the door — once, then again, though I don’t mean to. The bell above it hangs still, unmoving.

The light glows on the marigolds in the window, their petals trembling in the draft. I watch one bend, heavy with water, and for a heartbeat I almost hear it — the sound that changed the air yesterday.

But it doesn’t come. The bell stays quiet. The morning keeps breathing without him.

The light shifts to something heavier by midday — half-sun through cloud, soft gold tangled with gray. The shop feels smaller in it, edges blurred where light doesn’t quite reach. The air is thick with scent: wet stems, old water, a faint tang of lemon soap that clings to the counter.

I restock shelves without counting how many vases I move. The glass catches the dim light, reflections bending in strange directions. My focus drifts somewhere between them — my body moving, my mind somewhere that hums.

The radio crackles from the corner shelf, music fading into static and back again. I don’t touch the dial. The static feels closer to real sound than the songs do. It fills the air, soft but uneven, like the breath of someone trying not to be noticed.

A vase tips when my elbow brushes it — the sound sharp as a gasp before it hits the counter and splits. Water spills fast, running down in clear lines before pooling near my wrist.

I don’t flinch. I just watch. The surface ripples, catching fragments of ceiling light. The reflection warps when a petal drifts into it — orange against silver, the shape trembling.

The marigolds smell stronger suddenly, sweetness pressed tight against the citrus cleaner. Underneath it, faint but present, something warmer — a trace that doesn’t belong to this morning. His cologne. Not really here, but close enough that I can’t tell the difference.

My hand trembles when I reach for the rag. It slips twice before I manage to hold it. The fabric drags against the wood, slow, the sound almost soothing. I press harder than I mean to, pushing the water into smaller circles until it’s gone.

The cooler hums behind me, steady and low. The static on the radio fades for a moment, then returns. Between them, the space feels full — air vibrating without movement.

I turn the broken vase over in my hand, run my thumb along the edge where it split. The glass catches the light and throws it back, soft and uneven.

I set it down and exhale. The air barely shifts.

Even the smallest motion feels like proof I’m still here. Still in this room. Still touching the same things.

The silence folds back over everything, gentle but heavy, like a hand pressing down just enough to remind me it’s real.

The light outside turns thick and gold, spilling across the floor in long bands that fade at the edges. The air is warm and slow-moving, sweet with leftover bloom. I flip the sign to Closed. The bell gives a soft, tired sound before settling still again.

The shop exhales with me. The hum of the cooler dulls. The last bits of sunlight catch the glass jars, scattering weak reflections against the walls. Dust glints where it drifts through the air, slow enough to watch.

I gather the receipts from the counter and smooth them into neat piles. The paper sticks slightly to my fingers. The drawer of the register slides open with a small metallic sigh. Coins shift, clinking against each other, like a conversation I can’t quite hear.

The marigolds in the window look wilted in the heat — their stems bowed, petals tired from holding up all day. I brush one with my finger. The texture surprises me, still soft at the edges though it looks dry. I whisper, “You did good,” to no one, to nothing.

My phone sits face-up beside the register. The screen glows dim, waiting. I press it once. No new messages. The top of the thread still reads Ellis — 3 days ago. I stare at the words like they might blink alive. They don’t.

Below that, Harlow’s name sits steady, blue bubble ready. My thumb hovers above it. The air in the room holds still. It would be so easy — just tap, let sound fill the space again.

I don’t.

The quiet is almost physical now. It sits on my shoulders, folds into the space between my breaths. The longer I stand, the smaller the room feels.

“If I tell someone,” I think, “it becomes real.”

The thought tastes metallic, like biting my tongue.

I set the phone down gently, screen first. The light fades out of it.

Outside, the cicadas start up — slow, uneven, then steady. The sound seeps through the cracks around the door, filling what the silence leaves behind.

I flip the switch beside the counter. The lights blink out one by one until only the glow from the street spills in, soft and amber.

Upstairs, the boards creak beneath my steps, old wood giving under new weight. Each sound feels like it doesn’t belong to me — as though the floor knows something I don’t.

I pause halfway up, listening. The air doesn’t move. The quiet settles again, whole and unbroken.

Then I breathe — slow, careful, the kind that has to be relearned — and keep walking.

The apartment holds its breath.
Streetlight spills through the blinds in long amber bars that cross the floor, striping the bed frame and the soft fold of the blanket. Outside, the city hums low — a car door closing, a faraway laugh, the soft pulse of tires against wet asphalt.

I sit on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn in, back pressed to the frame. The air tastes like dust and rain. My phone lies dark on the nightstand, the room too quiet to ignore the sound of my own heartbeat.

The copy of Pride and Prejudice waits on the nightstand — the one I’ve carried from place to place, always heavier than it looks. When I open it, the spine cracks faintly. A folded page slides loose, worn soft at the edges.

I know which one it is before I unfold it. The one I found years ago in the locker Harlow and I shared. No name, no signature. Just paper and ink, pressed flat between the metal ridges. The poem that sent me hunting him down outside, asking if he was pulling a prank on me.

The paper trembles slightly between my fingers. I smooth it flat and start to read.

I hate you.
I hate the way you look at me like you know something.
Like you’re waiting for me to say it so you can laugh.
I don’t think about your hands.
Or your voice.
Or the way you smiled that day I dropped my pen, and you handed it back like it meant something.
(It didn’t. It didn’t.)
You’re not even that funny.
Or smart.
Or—
God.
Why do I know the sound of your footsteps?
This isn’t love.
It can’t be.
I’d know.
I’m not—
I’m not that.
You’re annoying.
Loud.
Too confident.
Too much.
Too much like someone I’d let ruin me if you asked.
(You won’t. You can’t. You don’t feel this.)
Sometimes I catch you looking at me, and I wish I could stop breathing for a second just to hear what you’re thinking.
Then I remember:
You’re them.
And I’m me.
And this only ends one way.
I hate you.
But if you turned around right now and told me you felt it too— God help me— I’d believe you.

The words blur slightly where my eyes catch on them. I don’t blink. The room feels close — the air thick enough to drink.

I whisper into it, “He came back.” The sound breaks halfway through, quiet enough that the dark could pretend not to hear.

“And I don’t know what to do with my lungs.”

The paper shakes once between my fingers. I press my thumb to the margin, smudging a small curve of ink — not enough to ruin it, just enough to leave proof I’m still here.

Outside, a car passes. The light from its headlights slides across the ceiling, gone as fast as it came. The city breathes steady beneath me — traffic, wind, a dog barking somewhere too far to see.

I keep the poem open a little longer, my hand resting in the center fold, until my pulse evens and the air feels possible again.

The ink gleams faintly where the light touches it, the last line soft beneath my thumb — God help me— I’d believe you.