i was here, she writes into the hard wooden floor. it’s the ninth apartment she’s lived in this decade, and she’s lost count of how many times she has moved around before that. she doesn’t remember when, but in the interim of the last eight places she developed the habit.
it’s always the same wording, shallow scratches on the smallest bit of flooring that can take it and still go unnoticed. there’s never a name or date or any reason for it than that she can.
she doesn’t recommend others do it; she just likes the semi-permanence of leaving a trace of herself there after she’s left each place. there’s something about wondering if it’ll ever be discovered, even as she’s unpacking her life into a new set of walls and forgetting where she left the traces.
satisfied, she picks up the last of her life’s boxes and walks out.