Behind Hye-jin's notebook

The bruise is dark purple tonight. I held my arm up in the bathroom mirror to photograph it and the color is almost beautiful — a deep violet that spreads across the bone where Im's thumb sat. Each finger left its own shadow. I smiled at three VIP couples in the marble lobby while the ache went up into my shoulder and the sleeve covered everything.

The pen on the doormat is worse.

I stood there with my shoes still on and looked at it. Soft blue. Third shelf. Behind Hye-jin's notebook, which is a thing I know and no one should know. The question is not whether someone was in my apartment. The question is how long someone has known where I keep things, and what else has moved without my noticing. I checked the shelf when I came in. Everything else looked the same. That is not reassuring. That is the whole point.

I did not reply to Im. There was nothing to consider. I opened my laptop and emailed Yu-jin one sentence — it has begun. She will know what it means. She will reply careful first, then not careful. I am already composing her answer in my head and I hate that I know her that well.

The 21F album has a new entry. The bruise is filed next to the other bruise, the other note, the business card from yesterday's stranger. I have been telling myself this is documentation. Documentation implies a reader. There is no reader yet. I am building a file because building a file is the only verb I have. Filed under: the day I stopped pretending any of this was accidental.

I am tired in the same way as last night, but lower. Yesterday the fairy lights made the room look like a children's birthday. Tonight I have not turned them on. The room looks like a place someone has already been, which it is.