By morning, the grief had turned into a cold, clinical fire. I began Stage One.
I took a photo of my vending-machine coffee balanced on a cracked windowsill overlooking a dumpster overflowing with trash. “A little noisier than I’m used to, but I’m making it work,” I captioned it, tagging both Jake and Lorraine.
The next day, I photographed a roach skittering across the bathroom tile. “Respecting my roommates,” I wrote. “They were here first.”
I posted the thin sleeping bag I’d laid over the suspicious bedspread. I posted the flickering neon light. I posted the small patch of mold growing under the sink. My phone began to explode. Friends, coworkers, and distant relatives flooded the comments: “Are you okay?” “Why are you there?” “Where is Jake?”
Jake sent a frantic text: “You didn’t have to post all that. It’s just one week.”
I didn’t reply. I was busy with Stage Two.
