In this bed, in this room.

In a bed, in the room I spent most of my formative years. The window I crawled out of, the wall I banged my head against, the floor I cried tears into. The window frames have been replaced, the walls painted, the carpet torn up. And yet… it’s familiar.

The first night home is always the best. Exhaustion leads to relief and I haven’t yet grown tired of my parents and they haven’t yet grown tired of me. I’ve got a free pass since I’ve been traveling for twelve hours straight. Wine flows. The bed is quiet and comfy. The time feels fresh and clean.

L had her last cancer treatment yesterday. Someday I’ll know how to process it.

I had my last therapy appointment, after seeing my therapist at least once a week for four and a half years. We hugged. I had forgotten how intimate hugging is. It feels completely right, but it also is a loss and a heartbreak.

Time passes. I’m jetlagged and feeling very… conscious.

Time to get unconscious.

Good night. Till next time.



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