Rot Slow, Rise Anyway

The bed is soft, familiar. Not comfort, not really, just known. A sinking, a settling, the weight of existing pressing down, but not enough to break me. The dishes stack in the sink, a quiet monument to days slipping by. My phone buzzes, I don’t check. The world is moving, but I am not. Not yet. And still - something in my chest tightens, not in fear, not in regret, but in recognition. A shift, a stretch, a thought that maybe I don’t have to stay here forever. I don’t throw off the duvet, don’t leap into the light. But I swing one foot over the edge. A small rebellion, a promise to the self I’m becoming.