the morning after

She was awake.
Four minutes after half-past ten but her body does not move, her eyes remained closed — calm and patient. She heard the muffled ticking of minutes and she knew she was alive. For twenty-one years and a day now.

Her mattress moaned underneath the weight of broken sleep. In the comfort of everywhere she was not in — in the symphony of missed opportunities and extremely embarassing events of a hopelessly boring life — she thought: so, where next?

On her bedside table, the gifts has been unwrapped and the handwritten notes, digested. The traces of yesterday ascended her bedroom walls, and she could not help but marvel at the strange people in her life who think her special. She never thought her awkwardness could seduce so well.

Maybe here is fine.


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