Now the evidence migrates: a flaking 2B pencil, a yellow Post-it scrawled with her own doubt, a blood-specked half-letter "E." They ride in coat pockets, ride in dreams, ride nineteen feet from kitchen to closet to bin, always stopping short of the lid's metallic clang. Sunday nights taste of copper; Mondays arrive like torn fabric. Each failed disposal calcifies the pause he secretly loves.
When he finally meets Elise in the chilled produce aisle, six feet of refrigerated air between them, the moment to speak arrives-and passes-without a sound.
A spare, haunting portrait of regret that refuses to resolve, told in precise, sensory strokes and the relentless tick of an unmailed confession.
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