The morning light filters through the curtains, soft and pale, yet it does little to shake the heaviness pressing against my chest. The alarm has long stopped ringing, silenced with a practiced motion the moment it first dared to disturb the quiet.
I don't want to get up.
It's not exhaustion, not really. I've had enough sleep—technically. But the thought of today being the same as yesterday, and the day before that, makes my limbs feel heavier than they should.
Still, I force myself to sit up. If I don't move, the guilt will settle in, and that is heavier than anything else.
The room is neat. Too neat. Every book on the shelf aligned perfectly, the desk free of clutter except for the necessary items—laptop, planner, a pen placed exactly where it should be. My eyes flick to the mirror, and as always, my fingers reach for the earrings. A small, unconscious motion, barely a pause before I let my hand drop.
I should hurry.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand, stretching slightly as I make my way to the wardrobe. My reflection in the mirror is indifferent, neutral, just another part of the routine. As I pull on a sweater and jeans—something effortless, something expected—the same thought circles in my mind.
**It's just another day.**
And just like every other day, I push down the quiet voice that asks, *Why does it feel like I'm running in place?*
---
Liana shut the door behind her, the familiar click of the lock echoing in the quiet hallway of her apartment. She adjusted the strap of her bag and sighed. Another day. Another cycle.
The morning air was crisp, the streets already filled with people moving through their routines like clockwork. She boarded the tram, slipping into a window seat. Outside, life moved in predictable rhythms—businessmen in suits, students with backpacks, an old man reading a newspaper as he sipped his coffee from a paper cup.
A quiet thank you pulled her attention to the aisle. A woman, well into her seventies, nodded at her, settling into the seat Liana had just given up. Liana only nodded in return, slipping her hands into her pockets. She wasn't particularly kind. It was just automatic. Like everything else.
Two classes passed in a blur. Numbers, words, instructions—things she absorbed but never felt. She stared at the clock as the professor's voice droned on, the second hand dragging itself in slow, deliberate circles.
Her phone buzzed.
Mira: Lunch? Cafeteria.
Sophie: You better come, or Mira will drag you here.
Liana let out a small breath—almost a laugh.
At least there was something mildly interesting ahead.