It’s been a long day. The kind that leaves you so exhausted that you doubt if you’re even tired anymore. You’re just… floating. Limbs floating in air, brain floating in skull, heart floating in.. well, you don’t even know anymore. It’s too much effort to think about it.

You come home and prepare yourself to launch your tangle of skin and muscle face-first into the cold comfort of your bed. And that’s when you notice it.

Your room is filthy.

We’re not talking dead rats, week-old garbage, and a mountain of unwashed clothes. We’re talking blankets draped on the headboard of your bed, lolling onto the floor and trailing over the thinnest film of dust perceptible. Your notebooks are vomiting their ruled sheets of paper all over the rug, the mirror seems blotchy and grey, a vial of essential oil has tipped over the bedside drawer (how did it even get there?) and stained all your socks with eucalyptus essence.

A roll of bills and receipts flutters past your feet, the curtains have been hastily tied back with the hair-tie you’ve been hunting for for three days now, a pair of pumps has been wedged in the corner by the door, the heel poking into the stem of your aloe vera plant (when was the last time you watered it?), the wooden plank you use as a makeshift desk has slid off the bed and has landed with a presumably dull thud onto the floor, bottle of ink and all, and the infuriating part of it all is that

the bottle didn’t shatter.

Anti-climactic all of it.

The damn bottle didn’t even crack. It’s just lying on the floor, pathetic and limp, and for some reason the ink inside is frustratingly still. Not a ripple, not a wave. Just one solid sheet of royal blue.

And that is the last straw.



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