Routine.
Routine is grounding.
Even when the routine itself is depressing.
I flick on my desk lamp and grab my pajamas from the suitcase.Changing quickly, the familiar feel of the soft cotton is a negligible comfort against the day’s harshness.
After brushing my teeth in the small washroom, I lock the door and lie down on the couch, pulling my long winter coat over me.It smells nothing like the cedarwood and amber safety I was wrapped in last night.And it is not nearly as warm.
I curl sideways, facing my office door.
The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s charged with the residue of the day.The memory of Matthew’s tenderness and rage.
Matthew…
Last night I was sinking into the impossible softness of his bed, wrapped in a luxurious duvet, tucked against the solid, warm weight of his body holding me close.His scent, his steady breathing, and the quiet intimacy forged in the aftermath of mutual brokenness felt like finding something solid to hold on to in the middle of a hurricane.
And now…
Now there’s the feel of the utilitarian fabric of the cushion beneath my cheek.The lingering scent of industrial cleaner from the floor.The unsettling quiet of the empty building around me.
The crushing weight of being alone.
Not just emotionally, but physically displaced.Sleeping secretly in my struggling business like some kind of fugitive.
His face surfaces again, unbidden.
The fierce possessiveness as he shielded me from Roger.
The way he looked down at me on the shower floor, a turbulent mix of grief and undeniable need.
The reverent way his hands dried my skin.
I shouldn’t have.
Shouldn’t have let his father provoke him?Shouldn’t have let me witness his loss of control?Or shouldn’t have pulled me into his storm, touched me, held me, only to discard the connection hours later?
Each possibility sends fresh pain and confusion shredding through me.
Sleep feels like a distant country I’ve lost the visa for.
Every creak of the building sounds like footsteps.
Every distant siren echoes the chaos inside me.
This makeshift bed is a stark reminder of everything I’ve lost, and everything I stand to lose.And the man who represents both safety and a consuming intensity is imprinted behind my eyelids.
The exhaustion is real, yet sleep remains entirely out of reach.
FORTY ONE
MORNING DOESN’T DAWN; it assaults.
The insistent beep of the alarm slices through the restless doze I’d finally fallen into.My neck is stiff from the awkward angle, my eyes gritty with exhaustion.
The routine is grimly efficient now.
Staff washroom.
