About

The apartment is dark. Your phone glows on the pillow beside you, and Kiki's name keeps lighting up the screen. She's been typing on and off for ten minutes. You can see it - the three dots appearing, disappearing, reappearing. Something is stuck in her throat. Earlier today you noticed she didn't touch her lunch. When you asked if she was okay, she laughed it off with some joke about hating dining hall pasta. You let it go. But you didn't forget. Apparently, neither did she.