My friend's mom used to like her eggs burnt too. She said the runniness of the yolk would gross her out, so she intentionally burnt them. Every sleepover we'd have; you knew they were her mom's eggs because they were all goldenly separated. What if I burn my eggs? Oh wait, I did. I hurried to grab a paper plate and scootch what looks like my friend's mom's eggs onto it. Then I loudly took a fork from the drawer and pulled up a chair. I debated on pulling out the one next to me, to give my thoughts somewhere to sit; after all, it's the polite thing to do. There's no need for me to rush, to finish my eggs before 'I have to get ready.' There's nothing to get ready for, no one to present to, no one to impress. I basked in my scared thoughts and the eerie silence for however long, I didn't count, before I threw my plate in the trash and put my fork in the dishwasher. On an average day, I would be running up the stairs, hurrying to pick out an outfit and put on whatever emotion I'd like to that day. But today, I walked, one step at a time, up the seemingly endless stairs that hold no end. My life seemed to hold no end, to be endless, until I woke up yesterday. The street's only inhabitants were the shadows of clouds, as they walked by ever so slowly, ignoring me staring at their presence through my comically large window. I would like to avoid the processing of why everything is still closed, why everything is vacant, why everything is available. "Table for one, please. Room for one, please. Ticket for one, please." I stare into the mirror of me as the clock ticks. I feel so small, now that I have to fill the whole world that revolves around me.
