Aug 19, 2025
Her front door was open, nobody was home. All the windows and doors were left unlocked. She wanted me to come inside.
Aug 20, 2025
We sat together in the park. She leaned against my shoulder and told me she’d been waiting for me all along.
Aug 21, 2025
She said my name. Over and over. Each time softer, but I still heard it perfectly. It sounded perfect as if she was born to do nothing but call out to me
Aug 22, 2025
She was surrounded by mirrors, but every reflection showed her next to me. That’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s how it will be.
Aug 23, 2025
She walked past without seeing me, but all the clocks stopped. Her shadow stayed behind, clung to my feet like fog. I think it whispered. I think it said soon.
Aug 24, 2025
She was underwater, eyes open, hair floating like silk. I was on the shore. She mouthed my name but the waves swallowed it. I stepped in anyway. The ocean was warm. Too warm.
Aug 25, 2025
She left a book on the bench again. No title, no cover. Inside, every page was the same sentence: I see you. I woke up with ink on my hands.
Aug 26, 2025
She had no mouth, just a smile carved into her skin. Still, she sang to me. I followed her voice through a forest of teeth. Every tree had her face. Some of them were rotting.
Aug 27, 2025
She was in my kitchen this time, barefoot, dripping rainwater though it wasn’t raining. She turned to me with her eyes closed and said, “You left the door open.” I didn’t remember coming home.
Aug 28, 2025
She danced alone in the hallway mirror. I wasn’t reflected, but she was smiling at something just behind my shoulder. When I turned, there was only breath on my neck.
Aug 29, 2025
She left her bedroom light on for me. The curtain fluttered just enough for me to see her silhouette. She knows I watch. She wants me to.
Aug 30, 2025
She dropped her scarf on the pavement, but didn’t pick it up. It smelled like her. She left it for me. I wrapped it around my hand and it felt like we were holding each other.
Aug 31, 2025
In all honesty, I don't remember my dreams from last night. What a shame.
Sep 1, 2025
She screamed in the dream, but not out of fear. It sounded like release. Like a breath she’d been holding her whole life. My hands were red when I reached for her, but she didn’t pull away.
Sep 2, 2025
She finally looked at me like she knew. Not with fear. With surrender. Like prey deciding it was tired of running. The next time I see her, I won’t wait. No more pretending.
Sep 3, 2025
I found her handwriting on fogged glass: come closer. The letters steamed away when I blinked, but the smell of her lingered.
Sep 4, 2025
She walked through all the doors like I had taught her. Each one closed behind her with the same small click. I counted them in the dark until my fingers bled numbers I didn't remember learning.
Sep 5, 2025
There was a photograph in my pocket I don't remember taking. In it she sleeps with her face turned toward me. Her eyelids were threaded with tiny stitches I could not unpick.
Sep 6, 2025
She left the kettle boiling and the tea never steeped. Steam rose in the pattern of a hand and I pressed my palm to it. For a second the heat spelled out a promise I could not read.
Sep 7, 2025
At the cinema she was the film. I sat alone in and the projector played us in grainy loops- every close-up of her throat, every pause where she might look up. The audience was empty except for my breath.
Sep 8, 2025
She traced constellations on my ceiling with a fingertip that never belonged to her. Each star was labeled with a small excuse she’d used once and later swallowed.
Sep 9, 2025
She taught spiders to spell her initials with silk. They built them into the corners of my room overnight; by morning my walls were a thin lattice of attention.
Sep 10, 2025
She began to answer the questions I had not yet asked. First with a nod, then a full sentence, then a silence so precise it filled the room and held me tight.
Sep 11, 2025
She stood in the doorway holding a key that had no teeth. It fit anyway. She turned it in a lock that only opens when someone is ready to let themself be found. She asked me if I was. I said yes before I understood the question.
Sep 12, 2025
She pulled her skin off like a coat and draped it over my chair. Underneath she was all teeth, but they smiled only for me. I sat in her skin to keep it warm.
Sep 13, 2025
Her eyes rolled across the floor like marbles, following me no matter where I stepped. When I picked one up, it blinked and whispered closer.
Sep 14, 2025
She climbed out of my throat while I slept. I woke gagging on her hair, tasting the salt of her breath. She kissed me from the inside before slipping back down.
Sep 15, 2025
Every mirror in the house showed her standing directly behind me. When I turned, she wasn’t there. But I could feel her hand resting on my shoulder, pressing harder each time I tried to breathe.
Sep 16, 2025
She waited at the end of the hallway, longer and taller than she should have been. Her arms stretched along the walls like roots, and the walls bled where she touched them.
Sep 17, 2025
Her face was stitched to the ceiling. Mouth wide, it dripped black threads that tangled around my wrists. When I pulled away, the stitches tightened and she whispered that I belonged to the weave.
Sep 18, 2025
She opened her mouth and a swarm of flies spilled out. They filled the room, humming my name in a hundred tiny voices. One of them crawled into my ear and told me where she was hiding.
Sep 19, 2025
Her shadow peeled itself from her feet and crawled onto my bed. It lay beside me, breathing. Its chest rose and fell, but there was no heart inside.
Sep 20, 2025
I started answering for her when she was silent. At first they were tiny choices — tea or coffee, left or right — and she nodded as if I had given her a gift. Now I finish sentences for strangers she passes on the street. They laugh and think it a joke. I say sorry in her voice.
Sep 21, 2025
She handed me a jar. Inside was her tongue, still moving, still trying to say my name. I kissed the glass until my lips bled.
Sep 22, 2025
I have a drawer full of ways I planned to tell her I loved her — notes that smell faintly of the soap she uses, lists of apologies written in different inks. None of them ever make it past the drawer. In the morning the drawer is full and the words are all turned to paper cranes. They watch me from their folded beaks.
sorry got a little behind but i've been noting them down in my book...will update here soon