Touching Myself (audio Only).m4a Today

"The desk is cold. It’s oak, I think. My knuckles are dry from the winter air. I’m touching the scar on my palm from that summer in Maine—it feels like a ridge of smooth wax."

The file was buried in a folder labeled Unsorted_2024 . It had no thumbnail, just the generic grey icon of a voice memo. Elias clicked it, expecting a forgotten grocery list or a half-mumbled melody. Instead, the speakers crackled with the sound of static and a shallow, rhythmic breath. touching myself (audio only).m4a

Elias sat still in his darkened office, listening to the ghost of who he used to be. The younger Elias described the texture of his own sweater, the weight of his watch, the way his pulse felt against his thumb. It was a desperate attempt to prove he existed during a year when he had felt invisible. "The desk is cold

"I'm okay," the voice on the recording said, softer now. "I'm here. I'm solid." I’m touching the scar on my palm from