"Who will find out first?"
It's midnight.
She turns the handle and pushes. The apartment's air flows out, spreading its nauseous heat into the hallway. She enters. The taps of slow steps echo across the room. Her gaze looks the room over. It is different.
His unwashed coffee cup sits on the tiny kitchen counter. A few papers lie scattered across the table next to his mom's old record player. His beanbag is in the middle of the room instead of in the corner; most of the place hasn't changed. She stops. Her eyes flicker toward the bedroom door. It doesn't open. She sighs and lets her duffel bag drop to the floor.
Memories flow hot and thick like the smoke from her cigarette while she works. She grabs a bee plushie from the bookshelf.
“Oh, this?” He smiles. “I won it at one of those water gun fair things when I was a kid.”
She raises an eyebrow at him. “You suck at those though.”
He waves his prosthetic around. ”Well, yeah, now I do.”
She stuffs the plushie into a bag and scribbles Sofia with a sharpie on the side. Bags start to pile.
She finds an origami kit in the back of a drawer. The tape seal is still on.
Rain falls lightly as she walks. Her phone chimes.
Kevin: hey
Kevin: Is he into origami?
She hammers out a response, struggling against the single drop of water on her screen.
Pheobe: uh yeah but he doens't actulaly do it m uch
She sighs, stops, and wipes off her phone.
Pheobe: I think it may be more of a passive "it's neat" sort of interest.
Kevin: Well, I can't think of anything else in time, sooo, origami it is!
Pheobe: Fair enough.
She grabs a new bag labeled Kevin. The ember of her cigarette glows in sync with her breath. Ashes fall away. She writes out a quick note and slips it into the bag with the kit before tossing it into the pile. Her eyes sweep a half-empty room. She turns to the papers.
They're seated in the cafeteria. It's an off hour; the place is empty. She's eating hash browns with bacon and apple juice. He's holding a cup of coffee with both hands; there's an untouched ham-and-swiss croissant on his plate. She stops stuffing her face for a second. She points at the plate, tries to speak, swallows, then tries again. “It's getting cold. You not hungry?”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry, I'm just… thinking.”
She goes back to eating and mumbles her words between mouthfuls. “'Bout what?”
He hesitates. “I don't know if I feel comfortable talking about it right now.”
She washes down a forkful of hash browns with juice before responding. Her eyes study his face. She shrugs. “Okay then. Whatever it is, I've got your back. Talk, food, play a game, crash for the night, whatever you need, just ask.”
He smiles. “Thanks. I need some time to think. I found something and… I mean, I don't know what to do about it or, like, if I can even do anything about it in the first place. I'll talk to you later, though, once I've gathered my thoughts.”
She nods slowly. “Cool cool… so, uh, you gonna eat that croissant?”
She stares at the papers. Clearance Level 5. She tosses them into the bag labeled Incineration.
There are a few photos stuck to the fridge. She sorts through them. Her fingers linger on one.
He holds the camera up, grinning. “Come on, get closer, people! Ya'll are friends, act like it!”
The group huddles closer. A couple people crouch in the front to make some room. “Perfect! Now, everyone, say: Machu Picchu!!!!”
She starts to call him corny, but the others’ yells drown her out.
She squints at the picture. He drew an arrow on it with her face on one end and the word grumpy on the other with a frowning face. She pockets the picture. The furniture is all that's left. Her cigarette fades to ash; another takes its place. She moves to the bedroom and empties it closet by closet, drawer by drawer, shelf by shelf. His diary sits on the nightstand. She leafs through it idly before a page catches her eye.
9/1/2025
I've been giving my mom's old records a play lately. It's all old Spanish stuff, half of it is bolero, too slow and boring for me to be honest, but there are a couple of interesting ones there. Serat is good. He's like cheery but introspective and a bit sad and nostalgic and folky and I really like it. A song of his has been stuck in my head. One line: who will put an end to my diary?
I've been thinking. Do I have anyone who will do that? Will anyone take the time to take care of what I've left? Or will it just be a Foundation manager rummaging through my stuff and selling it off? If I die now, who will realize first? Pheobe, maybe? Daniel? Will they realize I've died only when I haven't shown up to work?
I hope not.
She takes out a pen and flips to his last page.
Fin.