I woke up because the fan was clicking, not loudly, not urgently, just enough to register, and once I noticed it my attention kept drifting back to the sound, even when I tried to ignore it, so I lay there staring at the ceiling, half-listening, half-waiting, telling myself I’d fall back asleep even though I already knew I wouldn’t.
The alarm went off and I turned it off without sitting up, my hand staying on the phone longer than necessary, as if those extra seconds might soften the morning, and when I finally stood up the floor felt colder than I expected, which irritated me more than it should have, so I stood there barefoot for a moment before moving.
In the kitchen, I filled the kettle, turned on the stove, leaned against the counter, and watched the flame flicker underneath while the water heated, noticing the tightness in my chest without trying to label it or solve it, because I’ve learned that naming doesn’t always lead to relief and sometimes it just means you’re fully present while nothing changes. The coffee smelled the way it always does, the mug warmed my hands, and I drank it standing there, waiting for the day to meet me halfway, even though it rarely does.
I opened my laptop at the desk and watched the screen glow, then dim when I didn’t touch it, and when I woke it again a conversation I’ve replayed too many times slid into my head halfway through, my voice calmer this time, the pauses better placed, the words landing the way they never did in real life. I let it run, closed the laptop, then opened it again a few minutes later before realizing I was doing the same thing all over.
The chair scraped when I stood up, and I went back into the kitchen and wiped the counter even though it wasn’t dirty, then wiped it again from a different angle, folded the cloth, wiped once more, lined up the jars on the shelf so the labels faced forward, stepped back, adjusted one, then put it back where it had been, which felt pointless and oddly necessary at the same time.
I went back to the desk and picked up a notebook instead, flipped past pages filled with old handwriting, stopped at a blank one, and started writing without slowing down, pressing harder as I went, the words getting darker near the bottom of the page, until my fingers cramped and I put the pen down mid-thought. The refrigerator hummed steadily, doing its job without asking anything of me.
Later, I put on my shoes and went outside without checking my phone, walked past the same houses I walk past every day, noticed a plant growing out of a crack in the pavement, slowed down without deciding to, stood there long enough to feel slightly awkward, then kept walking until I reached the corner and turned back.
That night, the fan clicked again, and I lay on my back listening to it, noticing that I wasn’t counting anymore, and at some point my eyes closed before I decided what the day had been or what it was supposed to add up to.
Leave a Reply