Just Another Tuesday
Waking up felt different. Not good different. Not bad different. Just... different. Like someone had adjusted the contrast on my life while I was asleep and now everything was slightly sharper at the edges. I lay in bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling—still there, still cracked, still my ride-or-die—and waited for the usual morning dread to kick in. It didn't. Or maybe it did, but quieter. Like background noise. Like rain on a window you've stopped hearing. Huh. Weird. But okay. I sat up. My ribs didn't scream. They grumbled, sure, like old men remembering the war, but they didn't scream. I twisted. Stretched. Tested the ankle. Sore, but functional. The hand—the one that had been stitched, popped, and generally abused—was still wrapped, but the throbbing had faded to a dull, distant
- Writer
