She was sitting on the fire escape of their old apartment, knees pulled to her chest, wearing his too-big hoodie. The camera — his old phone, judging by the grainy 720p — wobbled as he climbed out after her.

He remembered that night. It was the night before she left for Portland. The night neither of them said “goodbye” because they both pretended it was just “see you later.”

Leo sat in the dark of his current apartment — nicer, quieter, emptier — and realized he hadn’t thought of her in months. Maybe a year. But now the memory was a living thing again, breathing in his chest.