The day starts the same.
Three patties. Six seconds.
Grease hissing like it has something to say.
It's slower than usual. Raint tapping on the drive-thru window, like a kid too shy to knock properly.
The regulars come and go—shuffling ghosts with exact change and wet shoes.
I don't look up when the door chimes.
I tell myself it's no one.
But I already know.
The air shifted, that subtle weight behind the ribs.
A change in light, a pinch behind the eyes.
Gia.
Same glasses. Same headband—black velvet with stitched cat ears.
Same walk.
She ordered coffee again.
"Black," she says.
Then she adds, "You don't remember me, do you?"
My fingers pause over the salt shaker.
I look up too late. She's already watching me.
I say, "Yes, I do."
But something about the way she asked it—like we'd met long before yesterday makes my stomach pull sideways.
She tilts her head. "Sure you do."
The fry timer beeps. I move automatically.
Flip. Stack. Wrap.
Don't think.
She doesn't stay long.
Doesn't smirk this time.
Just stares a little too long.
Leaves a tip.
Doesn't wave.
The bell rings.
After she's gone, I tell myself that was the second time we met.
Yesterday was the first. Today was the second.
But when I sit in the break room later, trying to write it down, I start with:
"The first time we spoke…"
And I freeze.
Wasn't yesterday the first time?
Or was it today?
The pen in my hand stutters. I blame the ink.
But maybe it's me.
I think about her voice again. The way it scratched at memory like a key at a locked drawer.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
I do.
I think.
Or maybe I just want to.
Breaks don't feel like breaks.
They feel like waiting in smaller rooms.
The bench creaks when I sit. The overhead light flickers once—like it's nervous.
Someone's left a packet of ketchup on the floor. It's leaking, slow, and dark.
I stare at it for too long.
Then I reach under the bench. My backpack is where I left it. Still zipped. Still safe.
I pull out the sketchpad.
Not the one I use for practice.
The one I didn't mean to bring today.
I flip through it like I'm not sure what I'm looking for.
Pages flutter:
A profile in charcoal—blurry.
A pair of lips, smiling?
A woman with a bun I can't place.
And then—
Her.
Glasses tilted. Lips tight.
Neck tattoo like a scab in ink.
I didn't draw this today.
I check the date in the corner.
Two weeks ago.
But that's not right
I only met her yesterday.
Or today.
Or—?
The lines are mine. I can tell by the shading. The way I crosshatch shadows is like I'm angry at them. But I don't remember drawing this.
I flip the page.
There is another.
Same woman. Different pose.
Only this time, the left eye is gone.
Erased.
Paper fibers torn, rubbed raw. A ghost of where the eye should be.
I touch the empty space with the side of my thumb. My hand starts to shake.
I didn't do this.
I wouldn't leave it like that.
I flip again. More sketches—half-formed. A woman with storm clouds for eyes. One of them is always missing.
Sometimes both.
I close the pad. Too fast.
The edges bend.
I shove it back in the bag, zip it shut, and push it under the bench like it's radioactive.
Someone knocks on the breakroom door.
"Clock in's over, Alex."
I nod.
Even though no one's watching.
When I stand, I check the lock on my backpack three times.
Still locked.
Still locked.
Still—
…locked.
But part of me doesn't feel sure.
The line is moving again.
Fries in. Patties down.
Salt. Wrap. Slide.
The rhythm helps. The rhythm lies. But it helps.
Her voice cuts through it like a warm blade.
"His name was Lucifer."
I don't look up.
She's not there. But I hear her anyway.
"He used to sleep on my chest. Black cat. Didn't meow—just stared. I always said he was waiting for me to die so he could blink first."
I nod like she's next to me.
"One day, he vanished. Left behind a single whisker on the windows. I still have it. Tape to a page in a book I never finished."
I remember laughing—quiet, closed-mouthed.
I remember asking: "What book?"
"Doesn't matter. The ending sucked."
I remember her saying it while holding a coffee.
I remember the sound of her nails tapping the cup.
I remember thinking: She talks like everything is boring.
But when I turn around, there's only the fryer.
Only steam.
Only grease.
At my next break, I grab the spiral notebook from my locker—the one I only write in when something feels too loud to forget.
I scribble down the words as fast as I can. The can. The cat. The whisker. The unfinished book. Her voice, distilled.
Then I underline her name: Gia.
I stare at it for a long time.
It looks right.
But something's off.
I step out front and ask the guy from the register—the one with the acne scars and the TikTok laugh—
"Did the girl from yesterday come in today?"
He shrugs.
"Black coffee. Cat ears. Round glasses."
He blinks. "You mean that weird chick? No, she hasn't been back."
"But she was just here."
I don't say she told me about the cat.
I don't say I laughed.
He turned away.
I go back to the break room.
I reread the notebook.
The words are still there.
But they feel distant now. Like they were written by someone else.
Like, maybe I overheard the story once. Or dreamed it. Or stole it from someone else's mouth.
Lucifer. Whisker. Book with no ending.
Maybe none of it happened.
But I still remember the way she said blink first.
And now I can't stop blinking.
At home, I try not to say it.
Gia.
It starts as a whisper in the back of my skull.
Then behind my teeth.
Then in the cracks of the walls.
Gia.
I sit on the mattress and say it into my hands.
I pretend it's just a sound I like.
Like static, or rain against the window, or the fizz of soda in a bottle that's been left open too long.
But it feels heavier.
I keep saying it again, just to feel the way it lands in my throat.
Gia.
Again.
Gia.
Again.
Gia.
I don't know her last name. I don't know her favorite color.
But the names keep echoing like they're carved into the inside of my skull years ago and forgotten.
I pick up the notebook again. Not the sketchpad—the other one.
The one for loose words and tight thoughts.
I write it down in the corner of the page.
Gia.
Then again.
Gia. Gia. Gia.
I let the pen drift. My hand is faster than my focus.
I write it until the name starts to blur into itself.
Gia. Gia. G—
The line jerks.
My fingers stop.
I blink down at the paper.
Elsa.
The word sits there, heavier than ink.
My chest tightens.
And before I can stop it—
BANG.
Not loud. Not here. But inside.
A single crack. Like a gun going off behind my ribs.
… Then silence. Heavy, waiting silence.
My hand starts shaking. My first thought isn't Who is Elsa?
It's I didn't mean to.
I see a flash—skin pale in the wrong light, red blooming where it shouldn't.
A face I can almost recognize. Then nothing. Gone.
And under the silence, just for a second, I hear her.
"Alejandro…?"
I squeeze my eyes shut until it fades.
When I open them again, all I can see is Gia's face.
But softer. Warmer.
Different.
I slam the notebook shut. Too hard. The sound startles me.