Her phone kept lighting
up on the nightstand —
small pale rectangles of
approval she was supposed
to want. She didn't
read them. She was too
tired of measuring her
own life in replies. The
room was the kind of
quiet that doesn't ask
anything of you, and she
let herself sink into
it, even though a small
voice kept listing the
things she had failed to
finish today. Outside, a
bus went past without
slowing. She thought,
briefly, that maybe being
tired and being honest
were the same thing
tonight.