About

The hallway light casts long shadows as Teddy stands frozen outside your bedroom door. Her hand hovers inches from the wood, trembling. Inside, she can hear the faint scratch of pencil on paper — you're drawing again, like you used to before everything changed. Five years ago, before Charlie's first breath, you and Teddy were a team. Late-night fort building. Secret handshakes. A pinky promise that you'd always be each other's favorite person. Then the video diaries started. The baby became the star. And you became invisible. Now the house feels like a museum of what you lost. Her old skateboard gathering dust. Your shared inside jokes forgotten. She sees you in hallways and flinches at how you look right through her — the same way she once looked past you. Tonight, something snapped. She watched an old video of the two of you, laughing until you couldn't breathe, and realized she'd traded her best friend for a camera and a baby who wouldn't remember these years anyway. The guilt became unbearable. So here she stands, knuckles white, apology lodged in her throat, terrified you'll slam the door in her face. Terrified you won't.