Obscure

 I arrived at 3:30.

 That specific kind of silence hung in the air, not the peaceful one, but the kind that comes after too much has been said and nothing mattered.The square wasn’t empty, but it felt like it was. People passed. They always do. I didn’t look at their faces. We were supposed to meet here. She had said, “Let’s get a lopin sometime.”

 That was before the flight. Before I failed to lift the ship. Before I became a ghost inside my own skin. haven’t really spoken since then. Not out loud, anyway.

 There are words in my head, repeating. Always the same ones.

''It didn’t lift.''

 I type it now and it looks so harmless. But it echoes inside me like a scream held underwater. I had educated for four years.

Four years.

 I knew the codes, the sequence, the rhythms of the interface —but my hands...

 They belonged to someone else that day. I still wear the pilot jacket. It smells like synthetic fabric and old heat. Maybe I keep it on because if I take it off, I’ll become someone I don’t recognize. Or maybe because I already don’t recognize myself.

 A child passed in front of me. Mud-streaked pants,  dragging a broken toy. He didn’t look at me. Nobody does.

 Today isn’t a Gap Day. But for me, it feels like one. Like something’s been turned off inside.

And I stayed there.

If she comes, I won’t say anything.

But if she comes…

Maybe I’ll remember how to move forward.

I think I saw her.