Hours pass.
They don’t blur. They don’t soften around the edges. They move with weight, each one landing fully before the next arrives, like stones dropped deliberately into still water. Morning gives way to afternoon, the light shifting across the floor in slow, measurable increments that feel intentional, almost punitive, as if time itself is insisting I stay present for every second of it.
I don’t leave right away.
At first, I stand where I am because my body hasn’t decided what comes next. Muscles locked in a posture that no longer serves a purpose but hasn’t released me yet. Later, I stay because moving would feel like pretending there’s something urgent to outrun. There isn’t. Nothing chasing me. Nothing waiting just beyond the door that would make this easier.
Eventually, my leg
