When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence in the apartment felt heavier than usual. I dropped onto my bed, this time more drained than restless. But instead of sleeping, I lay on my back, scrolling through old messages—mine, his, and ours.
Still, I refused to message him again. He saw my last text; hence, there was nothing more to say unless he wanted to talk. With a slow, tired exhale, I plugged in my phone, switched off the lamp, and forced my eyes shut. Sunday was settled. Saturday was set. My life didn’t need to stop because someone chose to be petty.
But even with all that logic in my head, sleep only came after my body softened into exhaustion. The last thing I remember was whispering to myself, “Tomorrow will be better,” even though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Sleep did
