The hum of the city feels distant through the window, muffled but steady—an ever-present backdrop to life in the apartment. It's strange, really, how normal everything looks now. The small dining table, the worn couch, the photos still hanging on the wall. For the first time in months, it doesn't feel like the world is collapsing around me. It's been months since the hospital. Months of quiet mornings, therapy appointments, and the muted calm that comes from the steady rhythm of my medication. I wake up now without the weight of shadows pressing on my chest. I eat my meals, wash my face, go to work, come home. Routine. Stability. I used to think those things were boring, but now they're lifelines. At the hospital where I was a resident, I've taken a job as a groundskeeper. It's quiet work—trimming hedges, clearing pathways, keeping the grounds neat for visitors. There's something steadying about it, something grounding. I like the way the air smells in the morning, the simple satisfaction of a clean lawn or a raked path. It's not much, but it's enough. Today, Joel comes over, just like he does every Friday—my day off from work. I enjoy the long weekends, the slower pace, but sometimes I find it hard to keep myself busy. Without work to distract me, the hours feel longer, the silence heavier. Joel knows that, I think. That's why he always makes a point to stop by. He lets himself in, carrying a brown paper bag of takeout. "You'd think I'd get sick of this place by now," he says, setting the bag on the counter with a grin. I smile faintly, flipping the kettle on for tea. "You'd think I'd be sick of you by now, but here we are." Joel laughs, loud and full, and it's a sound I didn't realize I'd missed until it came back into my life. We sit together on the couch, eating straight from the cartons, chopsticks clicking against plastic lids. Joel fills the silence with stories—about his job, his neighbor's new dog that won't stop barking, the horrible date he went on last week. I listen, and for once, it's enough just to listen. At some point, he sets down his food and looks at me. "You're doing good, you know that?" I pause, mid-bite, my throat tightening at his words. "Yeah?" He nods, his expression softening. "Yeah. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're still a pain in the ass. But you're here. That's what matters." I don't know how to respond to that. I just nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and take another bite of noodles. After dinner, Joel finds a shoebox tucked onto one of the shelves and pulls it down. "Hey, what's this?" I glance over from the sink where I'm rinsing dishes. "I don't know. I think it's old photos." Joel grins. "Let's look." I sit beside him on the couch as he opens the box, its corners soft with age. The smell of old paper rises up, familiar and bittersweet. Joel pulls out the first stack of photographs, the edges curling slightly. We flip through them together, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of a photo being passed between us. "Look at this," Joel says, holding up a picture. It's us—two boys, wild-haired and barefoot, sitting on the hood of Dad's old truck. I'm grinning with a stick in my hand like it's a sword, and Joel has one arm slung across my shoulders, his other hand holding up a bruised knuckle like it's a trophy. I laugh softly. "I remember that day." "Yeah?" Joel smirks. "Do you remember what we told Mom?" The memory hits me like a spark, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "We told her we'd saved a kitten from drowning in the creek." Joel snorts, leaning back into the couch. "We said we'd fallen in trying to pull it out." I shake my head, chuckling. "We didn't even have a creek anywhere near the house." "Or a kitten," Joel adds, grinning wide. We both laugh, the sound filling the apartment, warm and unrestrained. I haven't laughed like that in a long time—so deep it feels like something unwinds inside me, loosening a knot I didn't know was there. Joel wipes at his eyes, still grinning. "Mom believed us, too. She even made us soup that night because she thought we'd caught colds." "And Dad?" I ask, shaking my head. Joel's smile falters into a crooked smirk. "Dad didn't buy it for a second. He knew we'd been fighting behind the barn." I grin at the thought. "Yeah. He made us haul wood for, what, three weekends?" "Four." Joel points a finger at me like he's scolding me. "Because you decided to smack me with a stick 'just to see if it hurt.'" "I was testing the laws of physics," I say, shrugging innocently. Joel rolls his eyes, still smiling. "You were testing me, you asshole." We fall quiet after that, both of us looking down at the photo again. I stare at the two boys on the hood of the truck, their faces flushed and dirty, their grins wide and carefree. It's hard to believe that we were ever that small. That happy. "You always had my back," I say softly. Joel looks at me, the corner of his mouth twitching into a softer smile. "You always had mine, too." We flip through more photos, ones of family holidays and summer afternoons, until the air shifts without warning. I pull out a photo from the middle of the stack. The moment I see it, my hand falters, my breath catching in my throat. There's Lily—smiling wide with the sun in her hair as she balances on the edge of a park bench. There's me beside her, my arm awkwardly slung over her shoulder, both of us laughing at something nI can't remember now. "God, look at you," Joel says, grinning as he holds up another photo. It's me, clumsy and grinning, holding Lily's hand at the skating rink. "You look like a baby deer on ice." I laugh quietly, the sound surprising even me. "She was always better at that stuff than me." Joel's smile softens as he sets the photo aside. "Yeah. She made everything look easy." We keep going, the photos passing between us like fragments of something delicate. Lily holding a mug of tea, steam curling around her face. Me leaning against her in our apartment, her head resting on my shoulder, her eyes closed like she could sleep forever. For the first time in a long time, these moments don't hurt as much. They still ache, a deep, lingering ache, but it's a cleaner kind of pain now. It's something I can hold without it breaking me apart. I rest my head against the back of the couch, staring at a photo of Lily sitting on the grass, a book in her lap and a faraway smile on her face. "She really loved me, didn't she?" Joel doesn't look up from the picture he's holding, but I can hear the warmth in his voice. "Yeah, man. She really did." We sit in silence for a moment, the photos spread out across the coffee table, like a map of a life I'd forgotten how to appreciate. I pull another photo from the box. Lily's sitting on a porch, smiling faintly at the camera. The sunlight hits her hair just right, making it glow like a halo. And the porch… it's familiar. Too familiar. The cabin. My fingers tighten around the edge of the photograph, my chest suddenly tight. "Adam?" Joel asks, his voice cautious. "What is it?" I don't answer. I can't. I just stare at the photo, the edges blurring as my vision swims. The rabbit's image slithers back into my memory, soft and cruel, curling around me like smoke. She's waiting, Adam. The whispers are gone. But they don't need to be here for me to hear them. "It's nothing," I say quickly, forcing a faint smile. I set the photo back into the box, my hand lingering on it for just a second too long. "I just… forgot Lily got that dress from a thrift store. Some 25-cent sale. She made everything look effortlessly expensive." Joel watches me carefully, like he's searching for something in my face that I don't want him to find. But he lets it go. "Yeah," he says, his voice soft. "She had a way of doing that." I nod, staring at the box as I stack the photos neatly together. My pulse still thrums in my ears, but I keep my face neutral. I don't look at Joel. I don't want him to see the way my hands shake. That night, after Joel leaves, I sit alone on the couch, the box of photos resting on my lap. I sift through them slowly, pausing on each one, letting the memories settle without fighting them. I set the photos back in the box and close the lid, my hands lingering on the smooth cardboard. Lily's gone, but I'm still here. And for now, that's enough. The hum of the city presses in through the window as I stand and carry the box back to the shelf. I pause, staring at the small, carved lid one last time before tucking it away. I tell myself it's just a box. Just old photos. But as I climb into bed later that night, I can't shake the feeling of Lily's eyes on me—her faint smile from that porch. The cabin. The dress. The sunlight curling through her hair. She's waiting, Adam. ✽✽✽ I wake up before dawn. The apartment is silent, the city still sleeping outside, but something feels off—heavy, like a presence I can't name. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, my hands trembling faintly. The urge builds quietly, at first just a whisper in my mind. The same whisper that's been gone for months but somehow never really left. I try to push it down, to tell myself it doesn't matter. But it does. I pull the box off the shelf again, opening it in the dim light. The photo is still there, buried beneath the others—Lily on the porch of the cabin, her smile faint and her eyes holding something I can't quite name. My heart pounds against my ribs as I trace the image with my thumb. The cabin. I leave the apartment early. The air bites at my face as I walk to the truck, my breath curling in the cold. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and Joel's name flashes across the screen. I hesitate, fingers hovering over the truck handle before I answer. "Hey," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Hey, everything okay?" Joel asks, his voice casual, easygoing. "Listen, I was gonna see if you wanted to come out tonight. A couple of the guys from work are heading to the bowling alley. Thought you might want to tag along—get out of the apartment for a bit." I freeze, my fingers tightening around the truck door handle. Bowling. Beer. Small talk. I can hear Joel's voice now, teasing me about how terrible I am at aiming a ball down a straight lane. "Yeah," I say, forcing a small laugh. "That sounds good. I'll come." Joel pauses, like he's surprised by how quickly I agreed. "You sure?" "Yeah," I say again, too quickly. I open the door and climb inside, the phone pressed tight to my ear. "It's been a while. You're right. I could use a night out." Joel lets out a relieved breath, his smile practically audible through the phone. "Good. That's good, Adam. I'll pick you up around six?" "Sure," I reply, my voice even, controlled. "Six sounds good." There's a pause, like Joel's waiting for something else, but I don't give it to him. "All right," he says finally, his tone lighter now. "See you then." "See you," I say, and hang up before he can say anything more. The silence settles like dust, and for a moment, I just sit there, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I told him I'd go. I knew if I said no, Joel would press, would linger on the phone asking questions I don't want to answer. But I won't be there at six. I won't pick up when he calls. I reach across the passenger seat, my fingers brushing the box of photos. I don't open it, but I can feel it there—waiting. I turn the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. The city outside the window feels farther away already, the noise and lights fading as if they belong to another world entirely. I pull out of the parking lot, the tires humming softly against the pavement as I head for the open road. She's waiting.