Ethan stared at the fragmented phrase. His index finger hovered over the Enter key. The apartment was dark except for the pale blue glow of the monitor. Outside, rain slicked the windows of his small Brooklyn studio. Inside, the air smelled of cold coffee and regret.
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Ethan was a freelance culture writer, thirty-two years old, three months out of a five-year relationship that had dissolved over a whisper instead of a scream. His ex, Mira, had said he lived "too much in other people's stories." He wrote about actors, musicians, internet personalities—but never about the hollow echo their lives left in his own. Ethan stared at the fragmented phrase