"I know," I said.
The thumping was her head against the wall. I knew because I’d seen it before.
Lena looked at me. "You wrote that thing in your notebook. About me laughing at a meme."
I started keeping a notebook. Not a diary — a log. October 3: Lena laughed at a meme. October 17: Lena showered without being asked. November 2: Lena called me by my actual name instead of "you." I wanted proof that small good things still happened. I needed to believe they added up to something.
Part 1 ended the night I found her sitting on the curb outside her own house at 2 a.m., barefoot in December, clutching a broken mug like a weapon. She looked at me and whispered, "You see it too, don’t you? The thing that lives in my head. It’s not a memory anymore. It’s a roommate."
They didn’t. Not fast enough. Thanksgiving. Lena came downstairs for dinner. That alone was a miracle. She wore an oversized sweater and her hair was clean. She sat at the table, picked up her fork, and ate exactly three bites of mashed potatoes before excusing herself. But she came downstairs. That mattered.
Last week, Lena came over to my house for the first time in over a year. She sat on my bedroom floor, looked at my old band posters, and said, "I used to want to die every single day. Now it’s only some days. That’s not a victory speech. But it’s the truth."
