She lay on the side of
the bed that still held
the indent from someone
else's weight. The
ceiling fan turned above
her, each rotation a
small, pointless effort —
like her own breathing,
like the way she still
set two mugs on the
counter every morning
without thinking.
The night pressed against
the window, thick and
indifferent. She didn't
reach for her phone.
There was no one to
text, and she was too
tired to pretend
otherwise.
Instead, she counted the
fan blades. Four. Always
four. And for the first
time in weeks, the
counting felt like
something she was doing
for herself, not to fill
a silence, but to
survive it.