The night stretches on as I sit on the edge of my bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. The screen’s light is harsh against the dark room, but it’s a distraction I desperately need.
Each notification feels like a reminder of what I’m avoiding—emails from work, texts from a couple of friends I’ve ignored.
I can’t bring myself to reply, to explain the mess I’m in. Instead, I let the messages pile up, the weight of unread words pressing against my chest.
The whiskey bottle sits half-empty on the floor, a silent companion in my solitude. I reach for it, taking a long swig, the burn familiar and distracting.
“Just one more,” I whisper, trying to convince myself that another drink will help me sleep, help me forget.
But the truth is, I know it’s just another way to delay the inevitable.
The meeting tomorrow looms over me like a shadow, a conversation I can’t escape. I can already hear my supervisor’s voice, the disappointment, the questions I won’t have answers for.
Then there’s the landlord, his presence a constant reminder of my precarious situation.
“I need to figure this out,” I tell myself, but the words feel hollow.
The night wears on, and I find myself standing in the kitchen, staring at the flickering bulb above me.
It buzzes softly, a background noise to my spiraling thoughts. I wonder if it’s a metaphor for my life—constantly on the verge of burning out.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I need to focus, to find a way to get through tomorrow.
But as I stand there, the cold seeping into my skin, I realize I’m not sure how.
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