She sat in the hallway,

knees to her chest,

head tilted too far,

like the bones had softened.

Her eyes weren’t closed.

But they weren’t open either.

Just black.

Like wet caves.

The wallpaper peeled behind her,

not from age—

from touch.

Fingernails dragged across it

over and over and over,

long after the skin was gone.

She didn’t blink.

But sometimes,

the corner of her mouth twitched

like she was trying to remember

how smiling worked.

The air tasted old.

Like something had died in it

but didn’t stop breathing.

I heard her speak once.

No voice.

Just breath.

Words wrapped in wet cloth.

“If only…”

she whispered.

If only what?

She didn’t say.

She just turned her head,

slow and cracking,

until she was looking at me.

And she didn’t look away.