The city never sleeps, but tonight it feels like it’s holding its breath.
Y/n’s apartment is small, cluttered with the artifacts of a life that looks lived-in from the outside. Vintage band posters peel at the corners. A half-finished painting leans against the wall. String lights flicker weakly, casting everything in a tired, golden glow.
She scrolls. And scrolls.
The screen lights up her face as she lies sideways on the couch, one leg dangling off the edge. Her thumb moves on its own, thumbing through photos, videos, faces.
Adrian’s face.
A photo from last weekend. He’s in someone’s kitchen, laughing with a red plastic cup in his hand. Someone’s arm is slung around his shoulder. There are three girls in the background, all looking at him.
Eleven thousand likes.
She closes the app. Opens it again.
The box sits on the floor by the TV stand. Dusty. Obvious. She’s walked past it a hundred times this week alone.
