She couldn't sleep
again. The apartment had
that specific silence —
the kind where the
refrigerator hums like
it's trying to tell you
something and the walls
hold the echo of
conversations you didn't
finish.
She sat on the kitchen
floor because the bed
felt like a place where
thoughts multiply. The
tile was cold against her
thighs. She let it
ground her.
There was no crisis. No
particular sadness. Just
the low, electric hum of
a mind that wouldn't
stop scanning for threats
that weren't there.
She pressed her palms
flat on the floor and
breathed in time with the
refrigerator. In when it
hummed louder. Out when
it quieted.
It wasn't peace. But it
was a pause. And some
nights, a pause is the
closest thing to rest you
can reach.