She had been Kat once. Or maybe she had never allowed herself to be. She was the version of Kat who organized her bookshelves by color, who RSVP’d “yes” to parties and then found a reason to cancel, who posted photos of sunsets because they were safe. Her own profile, lena_scribbles , was a museum of quiet things: a well-made bed, a perfectly centered coffee cup, a shelf of plants with not a single brown leaf.
It wasn’t envy, at least not the sharp, bitter kind. It was a deeper, stranger pull, like reading a diary left open on a park bench. kat_licious
Lena zoomed in on the hands. There was a tiny scar on the left thumb. She wondered if it was from a knife, a fall, or something else entirely. She had been Kat once