Jae had a private Twitter account, which he never posted on, and an Instagram, which he also never posted on. He sat on Kasey's bed, in a ratty old band t-shirt and sleep shorts, though it was sliding into late afternoon by now. He wound the end of his ponytail around two fingers as he scrolled through the feeds on his phone, and then unwound it and repeated the motion in the opposite direction without consciously noticing he was doing it. The TV was on but turned down to a low buzz, some no-substance daytime show playing instead of the constant loop of news.
In a Baltimore neighborhood, lampposts and fences were plastered with pictures. Yearbook photos, mostly, but some newer pictures pulled from various social media accounts too.
Portions of the Manhattan bridge were similarly covered in papers, though wind and activity had already whisked some away, leaving bare spots of metal and concrete between them.
Pictures stuck to the walls of an apartment complex in Brooklyn, accompanied by red spray paint letters proclaiming, "WE REMEMBER."
Pictures all along a sidewalk in Pensacola, staring up at passers-by. At the time the picture was taken, the papers were clear, unmarred by footprints. People were visible, but they seemed to be making a conscious choice to walk around the display, of their own accord or urged by the photographer.
Pictures hanging in the windows of a line of shops in Denver. The caption said that they'd all been hung with the permission of the owners and would stay up for as long as possible.
They didn't make the news. They were a small blip locally, if at all. They were making some rounds on their respective websites, but there was a deluge of related posts being made, just like there had been for most of the last week.
Everyone knew. Fewer people holding it back out of politeness or hope or caution this time. These things didn't happen without explanation, and when the obvious explanation was also a pattern, it spoke for itself. There was no official word yet. But everyone knew.
Jae knew. He'd known from the beginning, even when he was shoving it down to the back of his mind. That was part of why he was still hiding out at Kasey's apartment instead of his own house, just in case. His parents had gotten rid of their landline phone a couple years back, but who knew who had gotten hold of their other contact info or how. He didn't want to speak with anyone, to make statements or pleas or get in front of a camera.
But he could ask his neighbors for a favor. There were a lot of art students out there that would jump at the chance to go out and slap something provocative on the world around them.
Maybe it was more for him than anyone. Just another instance of him beating at the window, yelling out at the world: I can't forget. I can't forget, so you can't either. For as long as it keeps happening.
It still meant something, even if it was just to him.
((Continued in Midnight Never Ends))