The light is already pushing through the edges of my curtains, soft but persistent, like it's been there for a while and I'm just now catching up to it. I lay there for a second, staring at nothing in particular, letting my body catch up before my brain does.
It doesn't take long.
Dinner.
The word settles in my chest before anything else does.
I roll onto my back, dragging a hand over my face, then let it fall to my side. My fingers brush against the sheet, then curl slightly, like they're looking for something to hold onto.
I turn my head.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark.
No new notifications.
I don't reach for it right away.
I sit up slowly instead, pushing my hair back from my face. It's messy—soft from sleep, falling wherever it wants, a few pieces sticking to my cheek.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching once before walking toward the mirror.
I don't look at my face first.
I look at my hands.
The polish still looks the same.
Glossy. Smooth. Not a single chip.
I turn my wrist slightly, watching the light catch it.
Clean.
Put together.
Like I planned ahead.
Like I knew this week was going to matter.
It feels a little ridiculous now.
Standing here, staring at something that small.
But I don't move.
I just stand there for a second longer than I need to.
Yesterday lingers.
Not in a loud way.
Not like something I can replay from start to finish.
