I’m Sorry Doesn’t Compute: Mallory
The silence in my bedroom was the kind that’s only found in houses where the air is filtered and sterile and the windows are double-paned against the world. I laid on top of my duvet, still dressed for a day at an office rather than a day off spent at home. I stared at the blue light of my phone until it faded to black, thinking about how at least when I made it to Kingsport, I wouldn’t have to look like this in my own apartment. But I’m still holding the marsh grass. The text felt like a confession. It was a glitch in the data. A piece of evidence that shouldn’t exist. Even just having it felt like a risk. It was tucked safely in my desk drawer though, a small, dried spring. It was brittle now, losing its vibrant green to a duller tan, but it smelled like Jay’s porch. It smelled lik
- Writer
