It’s dusk. Blue light is barely glowing through my blinds. Most of my light is seeping through the cracks of my door. Outside, Eighties music is playing. The television is on. But in my room it is completely still and black. My pillow is damp and My mouth is dry because I have been breathing through it for a whole now. I am a silent cryer. Someone walks in asking for something and doesn’t seem to notice. I have learned to become excellent at hiding these sorts of things. One can make the most out of being alone for 49 hours. Here’s what I have gotten out of it.
This house is not a home.