At two in the morning,
Maya's bedroom became a
courtroom. The defendant:
a single text she'd sent
that afternoon — "sounds
good!" — now examined
for tone, punctuation,
hidden meaning. The
committee of her thoughts
called witness after
witness: every awkward
pause from the day,
every conversation she'd
replayed since high
school. Outside, a
streetlight kept its
steady amber, unbothered.
Somewhere below the
spiral, a quieter voice
noted the plain facts:
the message had been
fine. Her friends were
asleep, not plotting.
Exhausted, she let the
gavel fall on no verdict
at all. The room was
just a room again. The
night owed her no
ruling.