August 11

The screen goes dark mid-sentence.

You were about to say something — the shape of a name, the color of a wall, the way light hits an empty chair.

The room keeps its temperature. The page you turned to yesterday is still waiting at that exact crease.

Somewhere a character wakes up and looks around for the hand that drew them into being.

You come back later. The sentence isn’t there anymore, but the chair still holds the shape of you.

The next words will come differently. They always do.