She would study on the bed — stomach flat against the mattress, feet up swinging, chin propped up by hands. Sometimes, she would scribble on the sheets and wake up to balanced chemical reactions and titrimetric trends on her pillowcase.
Tonight, as she readied herself for sleep, she saw a note tangled beneath the blankets of memory, faded by detergent. It read: I have mass. I occupy space. How come I don’t matter?