The ceiling doesn't have
answers. She knows that.
But at 2 a.m., when
the rest of the world
has gone quiet and her
thoughts are still
spinning like a wheel
that forgot how to stop,
it's the only thing she
can look at without
flinching.
She'd been here before —
in this same dark, in
this same body — and
somehow morning had come.
That wasn't comfort,
exactly. But it was
something. A small,
stubborn fact to hold
onto until the light came
back.