I don’t sleep. Not really.
I close my eyes. I turn. I try to force stillness into something that resembles rest.
It doesn’t work.
Every time I drift, I’m back in his office.
Too close.
Not touching.
That’s the part that stays with me.
Not what he said. Not even how he said it.
The restraint.
The choice not to close that last inch.
It lingers. Gets under my skin in a way I don’t know how to ignore.
By morning, I’m done pretending I can.
I’m already at my desk when most of the floor filters in. Screen on. File open. Coffee untouched.
Normal. Controlled.
A lie.
I make it twenty minutes before I catch the same mistake in a report twice. Something I could usually do half-asleep.
That’s new.
That’s a problem.
I fix it. Then stare at the screen like it might fix me back.
It doe
