She started the same
sentence four times before
bed — once to her
roommate, once to the
ceiling, once to no one
at all.
Each version began braver
than the last and ended
the same way: with the
lights turned off and her
hands folded neatly, as
if composure could replace
the words she owed
herself.
Outside, the hallway
light bled a thin line
under the door.
She watched it for a
long time. Not rehearsing
anymore. Just letting the
unfinished thing be
unfinished, until the
quiet inside the room
felt like hers again.