Mara sat on the kitchen
floor with her phone open
to her mother's contact.
The afternoon light made
everything look softer —
the dishes she hadn't
washed, the flowers dying
on the counter.
She typed:
"I think I need help."
Then deleted it.
Then typed:
"Can I come home for a while?"
Deleted again.
She stared at the screen
until it went dark. Her
mother would say the
right things. She always
did. But Mara couldn't
bear to hear them —
because hearing them would
mean admitting she was
the kind of person who
needed them.
The fridge hummed.
Outside, someone's dog
barked twice and stopped.
She called no one. She
stayed on the floor for
another hour, not
crying, not sleeping,
just existing in the
space between wanting
connection and being too
afraid to reach for it.
When the sun shifted and
the kitchen went dim,
she finally stood up.
Washed one dish. Left
the rest.
She didn't call. But
she didn't close the app
either.