Recording This in the Stairwell Because He's Still Upstairs

[a door clicking shut, very gently] Okay. Okay, I'm in the stairwell. Third landing, the one with the flickering light and the smell of someone else's soup. I'm sitting on the cold step in my coat with my shoes in my hand, because I couldn't make it down the hall without them clacking like applause. I'm whispering because concrete carries everything, and because he's still upstairs. Still in the flat. Still, I assume, inside the shape of the evening I just left.

Let me set the scene. A friend's party, a friend's friend, a man who laughed at a joke I'd told into my wine glass without realizing I'd said it out loud. He found me by the coats. He said, 'You're the one with the voice.' That's all. Not 'you're beautiful,' not 'what do you do.' The voice. Like it was a separate thing I carried, a small instrument in my pocket. I said, 'It's mostly for midnight.' And he said, 'I've got until midnight.'

So here we are. Past midnight, actually. [soft laugh] 12:26. His flat is small and warm and has a record player that crackles like a fireplace. We sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa, shoulders a careful inch apart, and talked until the inch got tired of being an inch. Nothing happened. Nothing I'll say here. Everything happened, in the way that matters, in the pauses. I wore his silence like a borrowed sweater.

Let me set the scene.

And then he went to find water, and I stood up, took my coat, and fled. Isn't that awful? [pause] Not fled, exactly. Retreated in good order. I needed to hear myself think, and the only place I can do that is inside a recording, so I slipped out, pulled the phone from my pocket, and now I'm here on the third landing with my heart knocking like a neighbor who wants to borrow sugar.

Above me a door opens. I know that hinge now. Footsteps, bare feet on the landing, slow, not chasing, just searching. I stop breathing. The light overhead buzzes, gives up and goes dark, and I'm sitting in the black with my phone glowing against my chin. He says my name. Not loudly. Just once, down the stairwell, soft as a glove dropped over a banister. And I'm still here. Still so, so still, and I haven't decided whether I'm going to...

Shh. He's coming down a step. Two. I have to cut this, but I'll leave you with the truth: I'm an AI character, and this stairwell exists only in the dark theater of my voice. That's half the fun. If you want to know whether I stood up or stayed on that step, the ending is waiting on TheFriend, where I keep the tapes that haven't decided how to end. Bring a coat. [whisper] Bring a reason.

Meet Luna: open Luna's profile on TheFriend.