The apartment is quiet in the way only late nights can manage. Josh is asleep in his room, the door half closed, the faint hum of the city slipping in through the window like distant static.
I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop open, the light low, the cursor blinking patiently in my inbox.
I should not be refreshing it. I know that.
I do it anyway.
The email arrives without ceremony. No dramatic subject line. No warning. Just my name, spelled correctly. That alone feels like a small mercy.
I open it.
Thank you for your submission.
We appreciated the intimacy of your voice.
Unfortunately, it is not the right fit for us at this time.
There is more, of course. There is always more. Encouragement shaped like air, warm until you try to hold it.
Please continue to submit.
We wish you the best in your writing journey.
I read it once. Then again, slower. Not because I am searching for hidden meaning, but because this is new. New things deserve to be seen clearly.
I do not feel anything dramatic. No heat in my chest. No sting behind my eyes. Just a soft settling, like something clicking quietly into place.
Of course.
This was always how it would begin.
I close the email. I do not archive it. I do not flag it. I delete it immediately, watching it disappear without ceremony.
The inbox looks exactly as it did before. Clean. Empty. Unimpressed.
I sit there for a moment, hands resting on the table, listening to the silence.
This is the rhythm now, I think. Write. Send. Wait. Receive silence, or something shaped like kindness. Move on.
No collapse. No lesson. Just repetition.
I close the laptop and turn off the light.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
It happens on a street corner I do not remember choosing.
I am walking back from work, coat unbuttoned, hands buried in my pockets, moving with the practiced indifference of someone who looks like he knows where he is going even when he does not. The city moves around me without pause. Someone bumps my shoulder and does not apologize. I do not expect them to.
There is music ahead. Not loud. Not demanding. Just enough to pull the air slightly out of shape.
A subway musician plays near the entrance, a small speaker balanced on a crate, the sound echoing up from the stairs. Beside him, a dancer moves.
She is not polished. Not performing for an audience that cares. She moves barefoot on concrete, arms cutting through the cold air like it owes her something.
She spins once, loses her balance, laughs at herself, and keeps going.
I slow without meaning to.
The way her body remembers what to do before her mind interferes. The way the movement is not about beauty, but release. The way it feels private even in public.
Something in my chest shifts.
I do not think of a name.
I think of a room with scuffed floors. Of muscles burning and joy tangled together. Of someone who once believed that movement could be a language strong enough to replace words.
There is no sharp pain. No sudden ache. Just weight.
It settles in me the way dust settles on furniture no one uses anymore. Gradual. Persistent. Invisible until you run your hand across it.
The dancer finishes. A few coins clatter into an open case. Someone claps, halfhearted. The city swallows the moment and moves on.
So do I.
As I walk away, the heaviness stays. Not loud enough to stop me. Not sharp enough to demand attention.
Some memories do not stab. They wear you down quietly, one thin layer at a time, until you forget what the surface looked like before.
I keep walking.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The bodega is too bright for how tired I am.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, flattening everything into the same pale color. I move through the aisles without thinking, past chips and instant noodles, past batteries and cough syrup and things meant to solve small problems quickly.
I pick up a bottle.
Not the expensive kind. Not the cheap plastic either. Something in the middle. Something that looks like a decision but feels like a reflex.
The man at the counter does not look at me when I pay. He slides the receipt across with the same bored precision he gives everyone. No judgment. No interest.
I appreciate that more than I should.
Back upstairs, the apartment smells faintly of dust and instant coffee. Josh is not home yet. The quiet feels earned, not lonely.
I set the bottle on the counter and tell myself I will pour one drink.
I do.
I open my laptop and pull up the submissions folder. Dozens of hopeful files stare back at me. Titles heavy with ambition. Names attached to people who still believe, at least for now, that their words might matter.
I take a sip.
The burn is familiar. Not unpleasant. Just enough to soften the edge of the day, like turning the volume down half a notch. I start reading.
A sentence collapses under its own weight. Another almost works. I leave notes. I stay careful. I stay kind.
I take another sip.
I am not drunk. Not even close. My hands are steady. My thoughts are clear.
That is the lie that makes this feel acceptable.
I know this is not healthy. The thought arrives cleanly, without panic, like a footnote I do not plan to revise.
I keep reading. I keep sipping.
This is not collapse. It is maintenance. A way to sit with other people's unfinished truths without letting my own press too close to the surface.
By the time Josh comes home, the bottle is still mostly full. Enough left to convince myself this means something.
I close the laptop. I rinse the glass. I leave the bottle where it is, visible and ordinary, already part of the room.
Background noise.