She lay on her side,
facing the wall, one arm
tucked under the pillow.
The room was dim — just
the streetlight pressing
through the curtain,
painting a long orange
stripe across the floor.
She could hear the fridge
humming in the kitchen.
It had been doing that
for weeks. Or maybe
months. Time had gone
soft around the edges,
the way a photograph
fades when you look at
it too long.
Her body felt heavy, but
not the kind of heavy
that sleep could fix.
More like the kind where
every muscle had been
holding its breath for so
long it forgot how to
exhale.
She blinked once at the
wall. The orange stripe
didn't move.
She thought: I should
get up. She didn't get
up.
The pillow still held the
shape of last night. It
would hold tonight's
shape too.