I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was nearly empty. Food I’d bought before leaving was gone, replaced by half-finished containers and takeout boxes shoved in without lids. I closed the door carefully, afraid that if I slammed it, something inside me would crack open along with the sound.
In the bathroom, a towel I didn’t recognize hung crookedly on the rack. My soap dish was smeared with makeup. In the bedroom, my bed had been used—not slept in carefully, but sprawled across. The comforter twisted and pulled like it had been part of the party.
I stood there for a long moment, my hands balled into fists, breathing shallow, feeling like I’d walked into the aftermath of a break-in that no one would take seriously because nothing obvious was stolen.
My phone buzzed in my hand—an alert from social media. I opened it without thinking.
There it was: a video posted to Claire’s account. The camera panned across my living room, lights low, music thumping, people laughing and raising glasses. The caption read something breezy about hosting friends at my place with a heart emoji and a location tag that wasn’t mine, but close enough that anyone who knew me would recognize it.
In the comments, people joked about how lucky she was to have such a great space. Someone asked if she’d just moved. Claire replied with a laughing face and said something about finally having a place that felt like her own.
My hands went numb.
I watched the video again, slower this time. I saw my couch, my rug, my lamp. I saw strangers dancing where I usually sat with a book after work. My apartment had become a backdrop, a prop in someone else’s story, stripped of any connection to me.
I called Claire. She picked up on the second ring, her voice bright and casual like we were catching up over coffee.
“Hey,” she said.
“What did you do in my apartment last night?” I asked. My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.
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