I didn't eat that night. Couldn't.
The thought of food felt strange—out of place somehow—like trying to laugh at a joke you didn't understand. My stomach was hollow, but it wasn't hunger. I just sat on my bed, the tray of untouched leftovers from earlier still on my desk, while I scrolled through my phone.
Her pictures filled the screen, one after another, each swipe pulling me in deeper. Val laughing in the campus garden. Val pretending to glare when I stole her fries. Val's hand half-covering her face when I teased her for being "too perfect" for a candid shot.
And then the videos—her voice spilling through my speakers like she was still here, in the room. A giggle. A sarcastic remark. That little tilt of her head when she was about to say something smart and knew she was right.
I smiled. I laughed, even. But it didn't stop the ache that twisted low in my chest, heavy and restless, like something alive clawing at me from the inside.
