She sat on the edge of
the bed and looked at
the blanket folded neatly
at her feet. It had
been there since morning.
The room was warm. The
lights were soft. Nothing
was wrong, and yet her
hands felt like they
belonged to someone else —
distant, unhurried,
unsure what to reach
for.
Anxiety sometimes arrives
this way: not as a
knock, but as a silence
that forgot how to end.
She lay down without
unfolding the blanket.
The ceiling held her
gaze. She did not name
the feeling. She only
let it stay until it was
ready to go.
Some nights, numbness is
how the body asks you to
be still.