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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 next day with a bitter taste on your tongue. You lay unmoving, in a similar way to your first morning. The only difference is, there is nothing in your mind. No anxieties, no thoughts, no nothing. The you two weeks ago would be embarrassed, but now you just feel numb.
You vaguely remember snapshots of yesterday, although you still can't recall specific sounds or sensations. Everything —the past, present, and future— is stuck in a haze. Even nature seems to be aware of this, as you can't hear the soft coos of birds outside your window, or the rustling of leaves as wind passes through them.
Time ticks by, and the shadows in your room morph as the sun traces its revolution in the sky. They get longer, fuzzier, and they move around the space as if chasing some unobtainable treasure.
You can relate, you think.
Your fingers reach out to them, before your hand falls limply to the floor. You graze the wooden floor with the tips of your fingers, the coldness to the touch diverging with the warm blankets. When they collide with something solid below your bed, you sigh, closing your eyes.
You stand up and kneel before it, gently taking the small box you had stashed under there. The latch clicks when you open it, and your old clothes, the ones from home, greet you. You run your hands across the cushy fabric, softened after many trips to the washing machine.
A chuckle spills from your lips at the sight. If you'd known you'd be whisked away when dressing up that morning, you would have chosen something comfier, maybe more nondescript. It turns into a sob when you bring it towards your face and you discover that it barely smells of home anymore.
