Matt

I don't have a neat ending for this.

I don't know where Miguel is.

I don't know if he just took off without saying goodbye because he wanted a clean break from everything.

Or if something wearing his face is out there right now, sitting by somebody else's fire, learning new names.

I don't know why it seems content to just watch me, to take pictures while I sleep, to rearrange small things in my apartment when I'm not looking.

A mug slightly moved, a chair angled differently, a jacket on the wrong hook.

Maybe it's playing with its food.

Maybe it's just patient.

What I do know is this.

Sometimes, when I'm drifting off, right in that thin space between a wake and a sleep,

I hear my own voice call my name from somewhere just behind me.

Hey Matt!

And every instinct I have screams to answer, to say what, or yeah, or even just make some noise to prove I'm not alone.

I don't.

I lie there, muscles locked, heart pounding, and I let the silence stretch out until the voice gives up.

At least, I think it gives up.

Because lately in the morning, I've been finding Polaroids tucked into strange places, between pages of books, in the silverware drawer, under the doormat, always the same format.

A picture of me, unaware, doing dishes, on my laptop.

sitting on the couch.

And in every single shot, just at the edge of the frame, is something tall and thin, half turned toward the camera.