For two weeks, I lived in the wreckage. I checked her Instagram—she was still posting. Pictures of coffee, sunsets, a ticket stub for a movie we’d planned to see together. She just wasn’t seeing me . I was a deleted scene. Cut for time.
I did what any desperate, hollowed-out fool would do. I went to her place. The building on 14th Street, the one with the fire escape that groaned like a tired animal. I buzzed her apartment. Nothing. I buzzed her neighbor, Mrs. Khatri, who loved me because I once carried her groceries up four flights. jasmine sherni ghosted
Not available. Not dead. Just… unavailable to me. For two weeks, I lived in the wreckage