07
977 Words
CHAPTER SEVEN
Proof of Life
I don’t sleep.
Not because I’m scared.
Not because I’m thinking.
Because sleeping suddenly feels irresponsible.
Like if I close my eyes—
I’ll wake up somewhere else.
Again.
So instead—
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at my own life.
The phone.
The notebook.
The calendar.
The videos.
The navy blue plates.
Evidence.
That’s what I need.
Not feelings.
Evidence.
Feelings are suspicious.
People trust feelings and end up buying air fryers they don’t need and marrying emotionally unavailable men.
Evidence.
I look at the clock.
2:13 AM.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
No TV.
No music.
No footsteps.
No dramatic husband standing in doorways.
Nothing.
I blink.
Wait.
I stand.
Walk into the hallway.
The house creaks softly.
I pass the living room.
The couch.
There’s a blanket folded on one side.
A phone charger.
A book.
Reading glasses.
I stop.
Reading glasses?
I pick them up.
Definitely not mine.
I keep walking.
Bedroom.
The door is half open.
I freeze.
Because—
I don’t know what’s inside.
That suddenly feels huge.
A bedroom tells the truth about people.
Pictures lie.
Videos perform.
Bedrooms don’t.
I push the door open.
And—
oh.
The room is ordinary.
Not magazine ordinary.
Lived-in ordinary.
Big bed.
Blue comforter.
One side messy.
One side neat.
Books.
Laundry basket.
Nightstands.
No candles.
No weird romantic atmosphere.
No giant wedding portraits.
Just—
normal.
That somehow hurts more.
I step inside.
My feet move automatically.
Wrong.
Wrong.
I know where things are.
I hate it.
I walk to the dresser.
Top drawer.
I open it.
T-shirts.
Socks.
Mine.
My stomach drops.
I know they’re mine immediately.
Not because I remember.
Because they’re exactly what I buy.
Same colors.
Same folding style.
I close it.
Open another.
Jewelry.
Hair ties.
A tiny notebook.
I freeze.
Notebook.
I pick it up.
Open.
First page.
Rules.
I stare.
Written in my handwriting:
RULES FOR BAD DAYS
I stop breathing.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
Read.
1. Don’t panic.
2. You always panic. Ignore Rule 1.
Okay.
Rude.
3. Check the date.
4. Check videos.
5. Eat something.
6. Trust evidence.
My chest tightens.
Then—
7. Don’t ask Kit if he’s okay first.
I blink.
What?
Under it:
He lies.
I stare.
Then—
8. Ask Lucas what day it is.
9. If Neil made a video, watch it.
My throat tightens.
Then—
10. Don’t decide anything in the first 48 hours.
Pause.
Then smaller writing:
You always want to run.
Don’t.
I stare.
My chest feels strange.
Not memories.
Recognition.
I would write this.
This is exactly how I talk to myself.
I keep reading.
11. Check the box.
I frown.
Box?
I flip pages.
Nothing.
Just one note inside.
Under bed.
I immediately hate this.
Because movie rules.
Because hidden boxes.
Because I’m doing it.
I kneel.
Lift the comforter.
Look underneath.
There’s a plastic storage container.
Blue.
Of course.
I drag it out.
Inside—
folders.
Photos.
Envelopes.
A sticky note.
HELENA—
ONLY OPEN IF YOU REALLY DON’T REMEMBER.
I stare.
Then open it.
Inside—
proof.
Hospital bracelet.
Wedding invitation.
Mortgage papers.
A kid’s drawing.
My passport.
Bills.
Tax documents.
Normal.
Normal.
Normal.
Too normal to fake.
Then—
an envelope.
Labeled:
OPEN LAST.
I open it first.
Inside—
one photograph.
I pull it out.
My breath catches.
It’s me.
And Kit.
Sitting on a hospital bed.
Not romantic.
Not posed.
I look awful.
Hair messy.
Eyes red.
Holding a blanket.
Kit is asleep beside me.
Head bent awkwardly.
One arm stretched toward me.
Someone wrote on the back.
First day she forgot me.
My chest drops.
I stare.
No.
No.
I turn it over.
More handwriting.
Mine.
If you’re seeing this—
don’t let guilt trick you.
You didn’t stop loving him.
You got scared.
My breathing changes.
Below it—
And he got scared too.
I stare.
Below that—
He cried in the hallway.
Don’t tell him I told you.
I stop moving.
There’s more.
You’ll think he handled this better than you.
He didn’t.
He just had more practice.
I lower the paper.
The room feels quiet.
Too quiet.
I hear movement outside.
Footsteps.
I quickly shove everything back.
Too late.
The door opens.
Kit.
He freezes.
I freeze.
His eyes go to the box.
Then to me.
Long silence.
Then—
“…Found it.”
I blink.
His voice stays careful.
“You weren’t supposed to find that tonight.”
I narrow my eyes.
“What happened in the hospital?”
He goes still.
Too still.
Wrong question.
His eyes lower.
Then—
“You forgot Lucas first.”
The room disappears.
I stare.
He looks away.
His voice gets quieter.
“You knew who I was.”
Pause.
“You forgot him.”
No.
No.
No.
I stare.
He doesn’t look at me.
“He kept asking why you were being weird.”
My chest hurts.
Kit’s jaw tightens.
His voice lowers.
“I had to explain to a four-year-old that Mom wasn’t mad.”
Silence.
I stop breathing.
Kit looks toward the floor.
Then says—
“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”
My throat closes.
His eyes finally lift.
“You said you didn’t want him to see your face when he realized.”
The room feels too small.
I grip the picture.
Then quietly—
“…Did he cry?”
Kit looks at me.
Long enough that I regret asking.
Then—
“No.”
Pause.
His smile breaks a little.
“He brought you a sandwich.”
My chest caves.
Because—
suddenly—
I remember.
Not the memory.
The feeling.
Tiny hands.
Warm bread.
A small voice saying—
It’s okay Mom.
And for the first time—
I want to remember.
- Writer
