She counted the seconds
between the clock's
ticks, not because time
mattered, but because
counting was easier than
thinking.
The room was dark except
for the thin line of
light under the door.
Somewhere beyond it, the
apartment settled into its
own weight — a creak in
the hallway, the fridge
humming its low note.
She pressed her hand flat
against the mattress.
Felt the fabric, the
warmth, the small fact
of being here. It
didn't fix anything. But
her hand was real, and
the mattress was real,
and for now that was
enough to stay.
The clock ticked. She
let it.