The time I’ve spent within these four walls makes itself known through the outline of my body in my sheets. The fan runs and runs and runs and runs. I listen to the same creak of the same loose bolts and try to make music out of it.

I get annoyed with the sound and turn the fan off.
I get hot and turn it back on.

I look up at the ceiling and realize that there’s nothing new to notice. Everything is the same and somehow worse. I turn over and still try noticing. A timid knock comes through the door, and I hold my breath. I don’t know why I’m hiding, but I am. I don’t know why I’m acting like they don’t know I’m here, they do. A couple seconds go by. I hear a muffled sigh and receding footsteps. I’m so far removed that I don’t even realize how uncomfortable the fetal position I’m laying in is with my scraped knees crowding against my hollow chest. In and out.

I blink and I’m upright in the kitchen with the fridge buzzing in the background. I’m staring at the cupboard full of glass cups. I need water, but I don’t want it. I take out the cup you gave me last year. I need water. I put the cup back down. I don’t want it.

Decisions have become difficult, talking is worse. Losing you has made me mean. I’m starting to forget how to be sweet. I keep wondering when muscle memory will kick in.

I’m back in my room without water. I go back to my spot, still hoping to outrun the ache while sitting still. A text comes through from my Grandmother about an idle mind being the Devil’s playground. I shut my phone off, turn over, and go back to sleep.