I rolled my eyes, but my heart felt lighter. Let it try. I didn't know if I should laugh, cry, or take up a third, less exhausting hobby, like pottery. Or sword-swallowing. It was a rare thing, for hope and dread to nest side by side in my chest, gnawing away like polite rats who'd agreed to share the spoils. But tonight, there it was: something between grief and a ridiculous, stubborn happiness.
Sleep felt like a dare, and yet the exhaustion physical, emotional, and existential caught up with me as I changed into an old shirt that smelled faintly of rosemary and ink. I dropped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks and wondering which one would fall on me first. Every pillow felt too soft, every blanket too heavy, every breath too loud. I couldn't remember if I was supposed to rejoice or mourn.
