The day stretches thin, like it’s been pulled too far and refuses to snap back.
I go through the motions anyway. That’s the only way to survive waiting. I eat something because I know I have to, not because I want it. The food barely registers. Texture without taste. I chew, swallow, take another bite, and stop when my stomach stops protesting. It might as well be cardboard.
Layla doesn’t comment. She knows hunger isn’t the point.
I wash the plate immediately. I don’t leave it in the sink. I can’t stand unfinished things today. The water runs hot, almost scalding, and I let it, like the sting might anchor me somewhere other than my own thoughts. I wipe the counter twice. Then a third time, slower, more deliberate.
Laundry comes next. Whites and darks separated with mechanical precision
