Had she somehow known I'd end up here, torn between loyalty to her memory and the unexpected spark Michael ignited?
A drop of rain landed on my cheek and then another. I looked up to find the sky darkening.
The memorial garden emptied as people scurried for cover. I remained seated, letting the rain ground me in cold reality.
If Marissa were here, she'd tell me to stop wallowing. She'd push me toward clarity rather than comfort.
I addressed her out loud again. "I miss your pragmatism."
The rain intensified, soaking through my jacket.
It was time to leave my fantasies behind, both the dream of Marissa's approval and the hope that Michael might reappear in my life. I had courses to teach.
***
Darkness had settled over Seattle by the time I returned to my apartment. The rain had intensified from afternoon drizzle to the relentless downpour the city was infamous for—water drumming against windows, gurgling through overflowing gutters, transforming the street five floors below into a ribbon of reflected light. I flipped on the lights inside my apartment, revealing the computer printouts scattered across every flat surface.
After microwaving leftovers, I ate standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through student emails on my phone. Normal responsibilities anchored me to a world that still made sense—upcoming papers, extension requests, committee meetings. I responded methodically, grateful for the distraction.
With dinner finished, I settled at my desk with my laptop, intending to finalize my fall course schedule. The file was almost complete; I only needed a last check with the department calendar to avoid scheduling conflicts.
I entered my new password, watching the familiar login screen transform into my desktop. Nothing was amiss at first glance, but something nagged at the edge of my awareness.
I checked my login history, a habit formed when I shared computers with colleagues in grad school.
Last login: 3:47 PM.
I frowned. It was 7:30 now, and I'd left my office at 3 PM.
Last login: 3:47 PM.
The timestamp glared back at me, irrefutable. While I'd been sitting in the rain, someone had accessed my computer.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, checking for any signs of what they might have seen. My documents appeared untouched, but the thought of unknown eyes scanning my files made my skin crawl. What had they been looking for? What had they found?
Did they see the news articles about Michael? My notes on Lars Reeves? Or something more personal—fragments of my grief journey, including half-finished letters to Marissa I'd never send?
I closed the laptop slowly as if sudden movements might trigger hidden surveillance. My hand trembled slightly on the lid, a fine tremor I couldn't suppress.
I moved to the window on stiff, uncoordinated legs. Streetlights cast hazy halos through the downpour. Cars passed occasionally, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge—nothing unusual for Seattle.
As I stared into the rain, the image that rose, unbidden, wasn't my office, the campus, or even my empty apartment.
It was Michael.
For eighteen months, I felt like a ghost in my life—moving through it, checking boxes, doing what I was supposed to do. The grief had calcified, leaving behind numbness I didn't know how to shake.
Sometimes, I caught myself craving sharp edges. Not answers or peace. I wanted something to remind me I was still here. Michael did that.
I remembered how his hand had cupped the back of my neck, and I remembered the steady warmth of his body against mine in the bungalow. He grounded me in a world that, for one night, hadn't felt broken.
In the game of historical documentation, connections mean everything. But so do breaks in pattern. The login timestamp was both a connection to something larger and a disruption of my normal routine. Any proper historian would follow that thread to see where it led.
But in that moment, as memories of Michael's touch resurfaced with painful clarity, I didn't want to be a historian analyzing evidence.
I didn't want answers.
All I wanted was him.
