Seventeen stitches. You step toward me. Your lip is quivering. Your hands coil around your forming apology. You say everything is going to work out fine as long as the sun rises tomorrow morning. It is cloudy.

Ten days. You said you missed me. You said you came to see me. I never saw you. Your face is soft and apologetic. But like an adult staring down at a child who fell of their tricycle. Band-aids. Bruises.

Six steps. You walk closer. You are sure of yourself now. So sure you are doing me such a favor. So sure I do not see beyond the mask. Your lips curl into a smile. Your face brightens—it is like you are talking to naivety itself. I put you on hold.

Three people. They are gone now. You say that you miss them. You say that you love them. A tear trickles down your cheek. It is acid rain. You give me a hug but your arms hold back. They are stiff, like a dead tree. Completely dead. Like them. Like me. Completely dead.

One day. It happened in one moment. One blink of an eye. One beat of my heart, flap of a wing, note of the song blasting on the radio. It is funny how much you can lose in so little time. Just a moment.

Zero. You walk away. Navigating down the hallway and disappear. I watched you until you were out of sight, half wishing you might turn back. But you never do. Why am I surprised?