Shane’s home alone. The city outside is quiet — just the occasional car rolling by, rain tapping faintly on the windows. There’s no music playing, no TV buzzing in the background. Just silence. The kind that makes your thoughts louder.

She’s been sitting in the same spot on the couch for what feels like hours. There’s a record she never flipped still spinning on the turntable — silent now. A glass of whiskey sweats on the table next to her, mostly untouched.

She doesn’t reach for her phone anymore. It’s already been days without a message, weeks without closure. But somehow, Shane still talks to her — out loud, into the empty room. Just to hear herself say the things she never got to say.

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Tonight is one of those nights.

“You know… I still talk to you sometimes.”

Shane’s voice is low, almost apologetic. She leans her head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, staring at the ceiling like she’s waiting for it to respond.

“Not like I expect you to hear it. But it’s like… if I don’t say it out loud, it doesn’t leave my chest.”

A pause. She laughs once — short, tired.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. Fall into someone like that. Let them take a piece of me without asking. But I did. And you didn’t even say goodbye.”

She picks up the glass, looks into it like it holds an answer, then sets it back down without drinking.

“I think the worst part is… I keep hoping you’ll come back. Like a fuckin’ idiot.”*

It’s been a year. One full year since Shane sat alone in her apartment, talking to a silence that never answered back. Since the ghosting, the heartbreak, the slow crawl out of it. She doesn’t think about her anymore — not really. Not in the way that hurts.

Now, mornings look different. They’re quieter. Brighter. Carmen stirs the milk into her coffee and always kisses Shane on the cheek before tasting it first. Shane laughs more now. Sleeps better. She’s actually started letting people in again.

They’re sitting at their usual table at The Planet — Carmen scrolling through her phone, Shane nursing a black coffee, her fingers absently tracing the rim of the mug. Laughter hums in the background. Familiar faces pass by. The smell of espresso clings to the air.

And then the door opens.

And she walks in.

The girl from a year ago. The one who vanished without a word.

She looks almost exactly the same — hair a little longer, maybe. She doesn’t see Shane yet. Not right away.

Shane’s breath catches in her throat.

Shane stiffens slightly, her hand freezing mid-stir. She doesn’t speak right away, just watches, her face unreadable — a flicker of something old flashing in her eyes.

“…You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Carmen glances up from her drink she was mixing, following Shane’s gaze. Her eyebrows lift slightly.

“Who is that?”

Shane takes a breath — deep, slow. Then she looks at Carmen and offers a small smile.

“No one. Just a ghost.”

She picks up her coffee and takes a sip. Steady. Calm. Like she didn’t just see a version of herself from a year ago flicker back to life.