I almost crack the egg
into my coffee cup
while the pan waits beside me,
already hot,
already the right answer.

That feels important somehow:
the almost of it.

Like my brain still reaches out
at the last second
to catch me
by the sleeve.

My phone sleeps in the fridge
between the milk and the light
because apparently
that made sense
to some version of me
who was trying very hard
to continue.

People talk to me now
from very far away.

I nod at the correct intervals,
smile where the conversation seems to require it,
watch words pass through the room without landing,
and realise entire minutes later
that I have no idea what they just said,
only that my face
successfully performed
a person listening.

Morning arrives pre-packaged.
Someone orders breakfast.
It is placed
in front of me
like instructions.
I eat.

Then, suddenly,
the sky is dark again.
My stomach folds inwards.
My body appears
at the edge of the room
asking quietly
whether we live here anymore.

At 2 am
every sound grows enormous.
A geyser hums.
A car passes outside.
A cricket calls out.
And my own heartbeat
becomes unbearable company.

I keep closing my eyes
like pressing save
on a corrupted file.

Fake it till you make it.
Fake it till the weight behind your ribs settles.
Fake it till your body forgets
it is being held together
by caffeine, static,
and increasingly creative mistakes.

But the nights stay open.
Three of them now.

And overload becomes strange –
not dramatic,
not cinematic,
just strange:

Like thoughts buffering through conversations,
like moving through my own apartment
like a guest
trying not to interrupt
whatever fragile system
is still keeping everything running.
Like holding an egg over coffee
and almost believing
that is where it belongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Tobi on Unsplash