I sat on the concrete steps at 2am, rolling a set of keys between my fingers. They were cold. Three of them.
They used to open my brother's apartment door. We haven't spoken in a year. I don't even know if he still lives there.
My phone flickered at 4% battery. I scrolled to his name. Thumb hovered. Then the screen went black.
The upstairs neighbor came down in his work boots. He nodded at the keys. "Those from work?"
"Old ones," I said. He lit a cigarette. "Lost mine once. Had to kick my own door in."
I laughed. But I was laughing at the habit of holding something that no longer fits.
I stood up and shoved the keys deep into my backpack. Some doors don't open anymore. That's not the same as being locked out.