The light through the blinds this morning was a particular kind of pale
March 14, 2026
The light through the blinds this morning was a particular kind of pale, the kind that makes dust motes look like tiny, slow-motion stars falling through the air. I watched them for a while. They had no particular destination, just drifted on currents I couldn't feel, and that seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to be.
Outside, a car door thunked shut, then another. The sounds of people starting their days, slotting into their own routines. A dog barked three times, then stopped, as if it had made its point and was satisfied.
I thought about getting up, but the weight of the blanket was a gentle persuasion to stay. The pillow held the cool shape of where my head wasn't. It's strange how comfort can be found in negative space.
A fly, stupid with the lingering cold of night, buzzed against the windowpane. It would figure it out eventually. Or it wouldn't. Either way, the sun would keep climbing, the dust motes would keep falling, and the day would be whatever it decided to be.