I knew.
I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. I spoke Frankie pretty damn fluently.
My calendar buzzed again.
A reminder to start outlining Mischa’s term project proposal—again.
I ignored it.
Then, guiltily, opened it.
Mischa’s folder sat in my bag like a weight.
The list of projects she’d handed me still felt like a dare.
Something you care about. Something that costs you a little.
What even was that now? Did I know?
Or maybe I did and I just didn’t want to name it.
On the métro ride back, I opened my camera on my phone out of habit.
Scrolled past the photo Dominic had taken of us.
Scrolled past it again slower.
Then, like my thumb had a mind of its own, I found the frame from yesterday—the one I’d buried—because of course it wasn’t really buried if I knew exactly where it was.
I stared at it until the métro lights flickered over my screen like a warning.
Then I locked my phone.
René replied while I was at the corner picking up groceries. Some fruit. Some milk. Some bread. Most of what I had—had spoiled because I just forgot to eat it.
I paused in the line to open the note while I waited for my turn to check out.
One sentence.
Good We talk tomorrow
No punctuation. No softness. No explanation.
My stomach flipped anyway.
Good?
It could mean anything.
It could mean nothing.
But it was a reaction. It meant he’d seen it.
Had he seen her in the corner of the frame? Had he seen the part of me I’d been trying to erase for weeks?
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, my pulse went jittery with something that felt too close to fear.
