I lay on the couch without even taking off my shoes. The weight of my bag still slung over my shoulder presses into my side, but I don't move. I don't think. Literally—I'm not thinking. But somehow, my mind won't shut up. It's buzzing like static, not about anything specific, just ... busy. Loud. Pointless.
What am I even doing?
This is awkward—even for me. And that says a lot.
I stare at the ceiling like it might give me an answer. Something. Anything. But all I see is faint cracks and shadows from the streetlight outside.
What am I supposed to do now? Act like everything's fine? Apologize? For what? For things that weren't really my fault? For just existing?
I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. Hard. A dull ache blooms in my skull, but it's still better than the numb confusion.
Haaa … I don't know. I don't fucking know.
