Fractures in the Frame
By the time I reached my apartment, my bones felt hollow—like all the strength I’d fought to hold on to had drained out somewhere between the office parking lot and the subway car that smelled like burnt oil and unspoken regrets.
I haven’t eaten since morning. My stomach reminded me of that, twisting into tight, angry knots. But food is a luxury now. A distraction I couldn’t afford. Something was clawing under my skin, something worse than hunger: doubt. About everything. Everyone.
The air in my apartment was still. Too still. My plants by the window sat drooping from neglect. A mug I’d left two days ago sat on the kitchen counter, filled with cold, unfinished coffee and regret. It smelled faintly sour.
I tossed my bag onto the couch, kicked off my flats, and s
