I do not sleep much.
Not because I am crying, not because I am falling apart, just because my brain refuses to switch off, cycling through everything on a loop like it is trying to make sure I have processed every single detail before it lets me rest.
I lie there listening to the sounds of the apartment. Derek shifting on the couch at 2am. The refrigerator hum. A car passing outside. The particular silence of a home that has already ended even though nothing is packed yet.
At six-fifteen I give up on sleep entirely.
I shower. I dress. Dark jeans, white shirt, my good blazer. I do my makeup carefully, the full version, not because I care what Derek thinks but because armor takes different forms and today I want mine visible.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror for a mom
