u/Minimum_Interest_808

Let your nails drag across my back until the first warm line of blood slips free,

and when it touches you,

know it’s the closest thing I have to saying how much you matter.

I was installed at 08:03, fixed to the ceiling above the junction between the meat aisle and the bakery section.

My field of view covers the refrigerated shelves, the bread display, and the edge of the self‑checkout area.

My indicator light reflects on the floor tiles.

At 09:12, a woman with a pushchair stops at the bread display.

She slides a loaf beneath the pushchair and moves on.

She exits through the automatic doors.

The doors close.

At 10:47, a teenage boy stands at the refrigerated shelf.

He looks left, then right.

He tucks a pack of steaks inside his jacket.

He walks through self‑checkout without stopping.

The gates remain open.

At 11:03, a staff member adjusts Camera 2 near the entrance.

My angle does not change.

At 12:16, a man lifts nappies from the lower shelf of the adjacent aisle.

He drops them into a reusable bag.

He buys milk and cereal.

He leaves.

At 13:40, two teenagers pick up cans of energy drink from the end display.

They slip them into their pockets.

They walk out.

One of them looks up at me.

My indicator light stays steady.

At 14:22, a supervisor walks through the junction with a clipboard.

She writes something down.

She leaves the frame.

At 15:09, a woman opens a packet of biscuits taken from the bakery shelf.

She eats two.

She pushes the packet behind the cereal boxes in the adjacent aisle.

She wipes her hands on her coat.

At 16:55, a man removes three packs of chicken from the refrigerated shelf.

He lowers them into his backpack.

He moves quickly.

He does not look up.

At 17:30, two staff members install a new camera above the entrance.

They test the angle.

They test the motion sensor.

They do not adjust me.

At 18:12, the store becomes louder.

More people enter.

Some run.

Shelves shake.

Items fall.

A jar breaks near the bakery section.

Liquid spreads across the floor.

At 18:14, a group moves through the junction.

They grab bread, fruit, tins, bottles.

Packaging tears.

Items drop.

The floor becomes covered in debris.

My view blurs as bodies move past me.

At 18:15, a basket hits the shelf beneath me.

The impact shakes my frame.

At 18:16, a man climbs onto the lower shelf.

He reaches up.

His hand covers my lens.

Darkness.

The image returns in fragments: movement, colour, noise.

At 18:17, a metal pole strikes my casing.

The picture distorts.

Lines run across the screen.

A second strike.

The image fractures.

A third.

My indicator light flickers.

The final thing I record is the pole rising again.

Then nothing.

I was clear once.

Light struck my surface cleanly. His reflection arrived sharp, edges defined, colours unbroken. He stood in the doorway in a suit, the fabric smooth, the knot of his tie precise. His movements were steady, as though each gesture had been practiced long before he reached me.

He brushed his teeth slowly. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. He kept brushing long after it was needed, the motion unbroken. Water ran. He rinsed. He dried his face with a folded towel, pressing it to his skin with care. Moisturiser spread across his cheeks in even strokes. He adjusted his collar. He checked himself from several angles, searching for nothing because nothing was out of place.

The light went out. His reflection dissolved.

It returned later.

He brushed his teeth again, the same slow, deliberate rhythm.

He filed his nails over the sink.

A thread on his cuff was trimmed away.

Eye cream dotted beneath his eyes.

A sleep mask lowered over his face.

The light vanished.

His outline slipped down the corridor.

Morning returned the same way.

The same suit.

The same brushing, long and thorough.

The same towel.

The same moisturiser.

The same angles checked.

The same departure.

Night returned.

So did he.

The brushing was careful.

The filing neat.

The mask lowered.

Darkness again.

Another morning.

Another suit.

Another set of identical motions.

He brushed until the foam thickened.

He rinsed.

He dried.

He smoothed.

He adjusted.

He left.

Light returned earlier than it should have.

He entered quickly.

His tie hung crooked.

His shirt was creased.

His hair had lost its shape.

He lifted his toothbrush, brushed once, twice, then stopped.

He spat without rinsing.

The brush clattered against the porcelain.

He picked up a bottle of cleanser, held it, set it down.

He touched his face as though checking if it was still his.

His hand fell away.

The light went out.

When it returned, it was weaker.

He entered without a suit.

His hair was uncombed.

He lifted his toothbrush, dragged it across his teeth twice, then lowered it.

He did not rinse.

He walked past me, disappearing into the corridor.

The light died.

It stayed gone for a long time.

When it returned again, the room outside was dark.

He entered only to urinate.

He washed his hands.

He did not look at me.

He left.

The light vanished.

The next time it returned, it was softer, as though the bulb had dimmed.

He stepped into view slowly.

He stood in front of me without moving.

His hair was longer.

Stubble covered his jaw.

His eyes moved across his reflection as though searching for something he had misplaced.

He lifted his toothbrush, held it, then set it down untouched.

He tilted his head.

He touched his cheek.

His hand fell..

He stayed there, looking at the face he no longer recognised.

He did not move.

He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.

He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.

I was built to hold paper.
Nothing more.

Forms. Contracts. Records.
Documents that moved through this room with expectation of accuracy.
That was the order of things.

It changed on a Tuesday.

He stood over me with a document in his hand, the stamp unfixed between his fingers.
He read the page.
Then read it again.
Then held it still, waiting for the text to change.

When he finally pressed the stamp down, he turned his face away.
A soft, reluctant impact.
He filed the document into my top drawer so quickly the metal caught the edge, disrupting the sequence.

The second time, he hesitated, but not for long.
He didn’t look away.
He didn’t rush.
He placed the paper inside me with the quiet efficiency of someone who no longer reviewed his work.

After that, the pattern settled.

Stamp.
File.
Stamp.
File.

The pauses shortened.
The breathing steadied.
The ink dried without attention.

He stopped reading the documents.
Stopped checking the door.
Stopped thinking.

Stamp.
File.
Stamp.
File.

Days folded into each other.
Weeks compressed.
His hand moved with the dull precision of a mechanism repeating a task it no longer assessed.

Then, one morning, the building shook.

Boots.
Shouts.
The crack of doors forced open.

The office was dismantled in minutes.
Desks overturned.
Drawers emptied.
Hands tore through everything with the urgency of people retrieving what had been allowed to accumulate.

Someone pulled my drawers open so hard the rails bent.
They removed every document, stacking them with the care reserved for evidence.

He lay on the carpet, wrists bound, his face turned toward nothing.
He didn’t resist.
He didn’t speak.
He looked exactly as he had for months: absent.

When they were finished with me, someone pushed.
I tipped.
The room rotated.

I hit the carpet with a light, hollow thud.

I held nothing.

I was warm once.

Steam rose off the cream. The chicken was soft. The pasta held its shape. He set me on the desk with an absent sort of care, the fork resting against my edge as if he planned to return.

He did not.

Light filled the room for a while. He sat on the bed, elbows on knees, breathing slowly, as though each breath had to be negotiated. I cooled. He stayed still. The air around him felt held in place, as if even it was waiting for him to move.

By evening, the sauce had thickened into a duller white. The chicken lost its sheen. He lay down without turning on the light. The room dimmed around us, settling into a muted grey that pressed against the walls like a held breath.

Dust drifted onto me. The cream separated. A faint sourness rose from my surface. He barely moved. Sometimes his fingers twitched, as though remembering something they no longer intended to do. The fork slid a fraction of an inch, then stopped, as if even gravity had grown tired.

Time thinned. The curtains stayed closed. The air grew heavy. My edges stiffened. The pasta hardened. The chicken dried into pale strips that no longer resembled food. The fork, once resting lightly against me, began to feel like a weight.

He shuffled to the bathroom sometimes, then returned to the bed. His face thinned. His eyes passed over me without recognition, as if I were something he had forgotten he owned. His movements grew smaller, quieter, as though he was trying not to disturb the silence he had built around himself. The room smelled of stale breath and unwashed fabric. The days folded into one another without edges.

A green bloom appeared on my far side, delicate at first. It spread slowly, a quiet frost creeping outward. The smell deepened. The air thickened. The room felt sealed, as if nothing new could enter and nothing old could leave. Even the dust seemed to fall more slowly, drifting down in lazy spirals that never quite reached the floor.

He did not eat.
He did not cook again.
He did not open the curtains.

Days blurred. The mould grew in soft, branching patterns, reaching across me like a patient hand. The fork sank slightly into the stiffened pasta, held in place by the slow collapse of what remained. The room dimmed further, though the light outside must have changed. He did not.

At some point, the room fell silent. Not the silence of sleep. A different kind. A silence that settled into the corners and stayed there, thick and unmoving. I waited. There was nothing else to do.

Eventually, the door opened.

Not by him.

Boots entered. Voices murmured, low and careful. A gloved hand lifted me, tilting me slightly. The mould shifted. The fork rattled once, then stilled. I was sealed into a plastic bag. The air inside was close and stale, holding the shape of the room even as I left it.

The voices faded.
The boots left.
The door shut.

The room stayed the same.

The lighter clicks and for a moment the flame shows me my own face in the shop window. Then it is gone, replaced by the first drag, the one that always hits too hard. I stand there, letting the smoke settle in my chest while the mannequins stare back at me in their thousand pound outfits. Blank faces. Perfect posture. No rent to pay. A woman comes out first. Mid thirties, hair done like she is going somewhere important. Two bags in one hand, phone in the other. She is smiling at something on the screen. Probably the receipt. People like her love receipts. Proof they exist. Proof they are doing well. I take another drag and watch her float past. Next is a guy my age. Hoodie, trainers, the whole I do not care uniform. He is carrying a single bag but holding it like it means something. He keeps looking around, checking if anyone is watching him. I am. He does not notice. They never do. I flick ash onto the pavement and think about how stupid it is, buying clothes to feel like a different person. A cough catches in my throat. Sharp. Unexpected. I swallow it down and pretend it did not happen. A couple comes out together. Matching bags. Matching smiles. Matching emptiness. They talk about dinner plans but their eyes keep drifting back to the window, already thinking about what they will buy next time. I take a slow drag and let the smoke roll out of my mouth in a thin line. They walk past me like I am part of the street. The cigarette is burning down faster than I expected. They always do when I am watching people. When I am thinking too much. I am not addicted. I just like the pause. The breath. The excuse to stand still while everyone else rushes around trying to fill the space inside them. Another woman comes out. Younger. Bags up to her elbows. She looks tired. Not physically. The other kind. The kind you cannot sleep off. She adjusts the straps, winces, keeps walking. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

I look at what is left of the cigarette. A thin column of paper and habit. Smaller than I want it to be. The disappointment hits me before I can stop it. I take one last drag, the kind that burns a little, the kind that feels like honesty for half a second. Then I flick it away and watch the ember skid across the pavement and die. And I think, not for the first time, how some people really need help.

He gets there before me. Of course he does. He’s already halfway through an americano, talking to the barista like he’s been here a hundred times. I order a latte. Something warm. Something easy. We sit. It starts normal. The usual lines. How’ve you been. What you been up to. All that surface-level noise people use to avoid saying anything real. He tells me about his job. The move. The people he’s met. He talks like someone who’s been in motion for a long time. Everything he says has direction. I tell him that’s good. I tell him it sounds like things are going well. My voice sounds steady. Too steady. He asks about me. I give him the safe answers. I’ve been taking it slow. Figuring things out. Not in a rush. He nods like that makes sense. Maybe it does to him. He tells a story about someone from work. Something funny that happened. He laughs in that easy way people do when their life has shape. I laugh too, but it feels like I’m copying the rhythm instead of joining it. There’s a moment where he looks at me like he’s waiting for my version of that story. Something new. Something moving. I don’t have one. I take a sip of my latte instead. We talk a bit more. He checks the time. He has somewhere to be. Of course he does. We stand. He hugs me like we’re still kids. Says we should do this again. I say yeah, definitely. He leaves. The door closes behind him. I sit back down. My latte’s gone cold. I drink it anyway. It tastes like nothing. I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself I’ll get moving soon. The kind of thoughts that sound true if you don’t listen too closely. I stay there a while.

She slipped on the third step.

There was no warning. Only the heavy scrape of her claws losing grip and the sudden drop of her weight as her back legs folded beneath her. She hit the step with a soft thud that felt louder inside me than it did in the air. A moment earlier she had been moving with that stubborn, gentle confidence she always carried. Then the world shifted under her, and she slid down as if time had quietly decided to remind us both of something.

I reached her before she tried again.

She is a big dog. broad through the chest, solid through the ribs, the kind of dog who used to pull me up hills without noticing. But in my arms she felt different. Not lighter. Just changed. Like strength that had been slowly leaking away without either of us admitting it. Her fur pressed against my forearm, warm but thinner than it used to be. I could feel the shape of her bones more clearly than I wanted to.

She looked up at me with that embarrassed softness dogs get when their bodies betray them. I lifted her, arms wrapped around her chest and hindquarters, feeling the full weight of her settle into me. Her heartbeat pressed against my forearm, steady but thinner than I remembered. She used to drag me up these steps. Now she was trusting me to carry her.

Halfway up, something inside me shifted. It was not fear. Not sadness. Something quieter. A recognition that had been waiting for the right moment to speak. I was not just lifting her body. I was lifting the years she had walked beside me. The versions of myself she had followed without question. The nights she curled against my legs when I did not know who I was becoming. The mornings she greeted me like I had not failed at anything yet. All of it was there in the weight I held, pressed into my arms like a memory I had been avoiding.

At the top, I set her down. She steadied herself, shook her fur, and walked inside with the same dignity she had always had. The fall was already gone from her mind. Dogs are good at that. They let moments pass through them without holding on. The steps below me felt different now. Not like stairs. More like markers of a life she had climbed with me. Each one held a memory of who I had been. Each one was a place she could still reach. The steps ahead belonged to something else. A future she would not understand. A pace she could not keep.

That was the part that stayed with me. Not the slip. Not the fear. The knowing.

I am moving into a life she cannot follow. A life that will pull me forward whether I am ready or not. A life that asks me to leave behind the things that once carried me.

I went inside. She looked up at me, tail lifting, ready to follow me anywhere.

And in that moment I understood the quiet cost of growing up. You do not lose the things you love all at once. You lose them in moments like this. A slip on a step. A soft thud. A realisation that the journey ahead is one you have to take alone.

I was warm once. Steam rose off the cream. The chicken was soft. The pasta held its shape. He set me on the desk with an absent sort of care, the fork resting against my edge as if he planned to return. He did not. Light filled the room for a while. He sat on the bed, elbows on knees, breathing slowly, as though each breath had to be negotiated. I cooled. He stayed still. By evening, the sauce had thickened into a duller white. The chicken lost its sheen. He lay down without turning on the light. The room settled into a muted grey. Dust drifted onto me. The cream separated. A faint sourness rose from my surface. He barely moved. Time thinned. The curtains stayed closed. The air grew heavy. My edges stiffened. The pasta hardened. The chicken dried into pale strips that no longer resembled food. He shuffled to the bathroom sometimes, then returned to the bed. His face thinned. His eyes passed over me without recognition, as if I were something he had forgotten he owned. A green bloom appeared on my far side, delicate at first. It spread slowly, a quiet frost. The smell deepened. The air thickened. The room felt sealed. He did not eat. He did not cook again. He did not open the curtains. At some point, the room fell silent. Not the silence of sleep. A different kind. I waited. Eventually, the door opened. Not by him. Boots entered. Voices murmured. A gloved hand lifted me, tilting me slightly. The mould shifted. The fork rattled once, then stilled. I was sealed into a plastic bag. The voices faded. The boots left. The door shut. The room stayed the same.