I Remember Her Wrong

The restaurant always feels different after closing.

The chairs, flipped upside down on the tables, look like bones. Something skeletal. Something almost clean. The floor smells like mop water and old fries. The soda machine lets out a soft whine.

I like this time.

The others leave without saying much. One of them mumbles "night" through a yawn, and I nod. Not sure which one it was. Doesn't even matter. The door shuts. I hear the latch catch.

I'm alone.

Or—I think I am.

I spray the counter by the register and wipe in slow circles. There's no rush now. No tickets blinking. No headset voice. Just me and the sound of cloth dragging across laminate.

Then I hear it.

The soft scrape of a chair.

Not from one of the tables. From one of the tables. From the counter stools.

I look up.

She's there.

Again.

Sitting like she's been here the whole time, though I didn't hear the doorbell. Maybe I just missed it. Maybe she's been here the whole time.

She's sipping coffee. Black, no cream. No lid. One hand curled loosely around the cup, the other tracing a shape on the counter with her finger.

"Hope I'm not in the way."

"No," I say.

She takes another sip. The steam hits her glasses, fogs the bottom edges. Her cat-ear headband is crooked this time. Tilted left. Her hair's messier than before.

I try to remember the last time. If we talked. I think we did. I remember her voice. But not the words.

"You work late," she says.

"Sometimes."

She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "You always clean like someone's watching."

"Someone usually is."

She nods like she understands. Like that answer makes perfect sense.

Then she says it: "Black, like before."

That's all.

But it stops me.

Before?

I thought this was the first time we've… spoken. Alone. I remember her ordering coffee the first time. I remember her leaving. That's all.

Isn't it?

I nod, even though I don't know what I'm agreeing to.

She takes another sip, then sets the cup down with a small clink.

She stands. Looks at me too long.

Like she's not sure if she should say something.

"I don't like silence," she says, almost too casually. "It's always pretending to be safe."

I nod once, too slow to mean anything.

She shifts her weight, then slides into the booth closest to the counter—one of the clean ones, still sticky from the bleach. Her coffee's cold, but she sips it anyway.

"Sit," she says.

It's not a command, but it lands like one.

I sit across from her.

The light overhead buzzes like it's struggling. Her face flickers in and out of perfect clarity. I can't decide if the shadows make her look older or younger.

"I used to talk to ghosts," she says, voice calm, "just the ones that followed me. The polite ones."

I say nothing.

"I stopped when I realized they don't talk back. Not really. They just wait for you to remember them the right way."

I open my mouth.

"Da—"

It slips out, barely a breath.

I stop. Swallow it.

I think her name almost came out.

Not hers.

Not Gia.

Dalia.

I shake my head. My fingers move under the table, fidgeting. They brush a scar on my wrist. Thin. White.

Gia watches me. Being observant. Like she's already counted the cracks in me and is waiting to see which one leaks first.

"You flinched," she says.

I didn't notice.

"You do that when something hits too close?"

I stare at the salt shaker between us. It's the only thing on the table. The label's worn off.

She leans forward, elbows on the table. "You ever feel like someone's still watching you, even after they're dead?"

My throat tightens.

I nod. Just once.

Her expression doesn't change, but her shoulders soften.

"Some people don't stay gone," she says.

The light flickers again.

She finishes the last of her coffee, makes a face, then says, "This place really does suck."

And just like that, she gets up.

The bell rings as she leaves.

I'm still sitting there. Trying to remember what name I almost said.

Or if I've said it before.

When I get to the apartment, it smells like steam and old pencil lead.

I haven't turned the light on. The radiator ticks. The kettle hisses softly, like it's whispering something I'm not ready to hear.

I sit on the floor, knees pulled up. The sketchpad is in my lap—the small one. I flip past pages I don't remember finishing. Some are scribbles. Some look like people I've met. Others feel like dreams I forgot to forget.

I stop on a blank sheet.

The pencil feels warm, like it's been waiting.

I start with her hands.

Not her face—not this time.

Her hands move differently from most people's.

Then her mouth. Sharp corners. Full, but never quite soft.

I draw the glasses next. Oversized. Slipping just slightly down the bridge of her nose. Her eyes—

I pause.

This time I want to get them both right.

Right eye first. Wide. Alert.

Then the left.

I concentrate. Shade gently. Trace the curve of the lid, the iris. No shadows. Just clean, clear lines.

I lean back. Exhale.

And stare at the page.

The left eye is black.

Fully shaded. Crosshatched. Sinking into the page.

I didn't mean to.

I know I didn't.

But there it is. Like always.

I run my thumb over it. The paper feels warm, worn thin.

My handwriting appears in the lower corner:

"Drawn from memory."

The date underneath says:

October 17th.

That's not today.

It's not even this week.

I check the calendar taped beside the fridge. The days don't match. The 17th was a Saturday. I didn't work Saturday. I was sick. I think. I don't remember seeing her that day. I don't think she came in at all.

I flip back a few pages. 

There is another sketch.

Same girl. Same angle. Same eye blacked out.

No memory of drawing it.

The page smells like coffee and something sweeter, maybe vanilla. Maybe nothing.

I write the real date beside the old one. Smaller.

Then I close the sketch pad and slide it under the bed.

Far under this time.

I don't want to see her eyes tonight again.

I turn off the kettle. Crawl into bed. I lie still with the lights off, eyes open, and wonder which version of her I'll dream about.

The one I talked to?

Or the one who never said a word?

The morning sky is gray. Clouds hang. The sidewalk shines with last night's rain, though I don't remember hearing it fall.

I walk to the bus stop with my head down, same as always. Hands in pockets. Steps counted in threes.

The streets are too quiet. Even the birds sound unsure of themselves.

Her voice returns before I'm ready for it.

"Some ghosts never leave," she'd said.

I remember that part. I think.

But the tone feels different now.

Colder. Not cruel, not at all… just distant. Like she was quoting someone.

"Some ghosts never leave. Especially the ones you love."

That's how she said it. I think.

Except last night, she was softer. Laughing a little. Resting her cheek in her palm like she wasn't in a rush to go anywhere.

Today, the memory is sharper. Her eyes don't blink. Her voice cuts between my thoughts like static.

I remember saying something about nightmares. She didn't laugh.

I remember smiling. But that doesn't fit.

She told me I was quiet. That I seemed like someone who listened more than he spoke. I told her listening was safer.

But now I'm not sure if I said that at all.

Now I remember something else.

She looked at me too long.

She said, "You remind me of someone."

And then, clear as day:

"You don't have to be scared, mijo."

Mijo.

I stop walking.

The word rings in my chest.

Did she say that?

I think she said that.

She called me son.

No—she didn't. She never did.

I'd remember that.

Wouldn't I?

The bus pulls up. I blink and almost miss it.

I get on. Sit by the window. Watch the world smear past in streaks of wet color.

I think about how she looked at me—like she'd seen something I hadn't shown her yet. Like she already knew.

I press my head to the glass.

It's cold. That's good. Cold keeps me sharp.

Except today, it doesn't feel like enough. 

I don't work today.

I know that. I checked the schedule twice. Still, I end up there. The walk just… happened. Feet moving before thoughts caught up. I don't remember getting dressed, but I'm in uniform. Nametag on. Shirt tucked in. It's like my body decided for me.

The bell above the door coughs when I enter. It's louder today. There's only one customer inside.

Gia.

She's sitting in the far booth with a coffee cup in both hands, sleeves pulled up just enough to show the edge of a new tattoo. Can't make it up. Maybe a skull, or some wings.

She looks up like she was expecting me.

"You're not on the schedule," she says.

I blink. "I—yeah. I know."

A beat passes. The fryer hisses in the back. No one else speaks.

She gestures at the bench across from her. "Sit."

I do.

No thinking. Just movement.

"You came here anyway," she says. Her voice is unreadable.

I nod. "I… guess I needed air."

She watches me too long again. Then:

"Yesterday, you were going to say a name. You stopped halfway through. What was it?"

I tilt my head. "I did?"

"You said Da— and then nothing. Or maybe it wasn't Da. Maybe it was Par—" She frowns. "Like a slip."

Something cold walks down my spine.

I shake my head. "I don't remember that."

She doesn't respond right away.

Instead, she says, "You're speaking differently now."

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday, you were guarded. Short sentences. Today, you are… clearer. Calmer."

I blink again. I hadn't noticed. I feel… hollow, but not in a bad way.

She leans forward. Her eyes catch the light like knives.

"Who were you going to say?"

The words come before I think them.

"Dalia… my little sister."

The name slips out like a wound breaking open. Too fast. To raw. I didn't plan to say it. I didn't even know I remembered it.

The booth feels colder. Like the air decided I didn't deserve warmth anymore.

Gia doesn't react right away. Her face doesn't change. She watches me like she's afraid any sudden movement will make me shatter.

I try to pull the words back. I can't.

"She used to draw cats on everything," I say. "Even the walls, her skin, sometimes, when there was no paper."

I press my fingers to the table. They're trembling.

"She liked glitter pens. She always stole them."

Gia doesn't speak. She's listening the way people do when they're trying not to breathe too loud.

"She laughed because she knew we weren't poor. I think she liked the thrill."

I pause.

"She was brave."

The silence is thick. There's a hum somewhere, maybe the ice machine, maybe my head.

I look at the napkin. Still blank now. No writing. No warning.

"I didn't mean to," I whisper.

Gia leans forward, very slightly.

"I didn't mean to."

 It's louder this time. Angrier. More desperate.

 "It wasn't supposed to be her. I was aiming for the bad guy. Just the bad guy."

Something claws at my throat. My hands fist on the table, they're remembering something my mind doesn't want to.

"It was an accident," I say. "That's what I tell them. That's what I write down. That's what I've always said."

I blink. Gia hasn't moved.

"But the blood didn't care," I finish. "The blood still came."

Silence.

Then Gia speaks, softly:

"Do you see her still?"

I look away. I can't answer that. Not really.

Sometimes I wake up to scratching at the baseboards. Sometimes I smell glitter ink in my sleep. Sometimes I dream of cats with no faces. One always stares too long.

I open my mouth.

"I… don't know."

Gia just nods. Her coffee's gone cold.

She doesn't say thank you. Or sorry. Or anything people say when someone spills their worst self on a table.

She just says:

"You remember her like she's still here. That's all it matters."

I close my eyes.

Maybe she is.

Maybe part of me never stopped hearing her last scream.

Maybe that's why the left eye is always shaded in. Because that's how she looked at me—one eye full of questions.

The other already gone.

And I'll never know which one I shot first.