last night, she’d left the window open, hoping for a strong gust of wind to rush into her room, lift her off of the starched white sheets—
and hurry her out of the simplistic apartment complex she lay in. instead, she awoke to meek sunlight weaving through her amber hair, exuding the slight musk of faded peppermint and coarse sugar.
her skin was alight with a wash of pale yellow as her hooded eyes scaled the cracked plaster of a ceiling in dire need of repair.
she couldn’t remember much from the night before, an instinctive blur of unfamiliar faces and a conglomeration of colour that burned through her eyes to the back of her head.
the muted white of her flimsy top seemed to brighten—a brilliant, lasting glow—as the day progressed.
she seemed content exactly where she was, unmoving, wrapped amidst crumpled sheets and the complexity of her thoughts.
she realized, soon enough, that she couldn’t shake this dreadful feeling, this sense that clung to her much like the plump fingers of a newborn child.
it was uncomfortable to experience such a tight clutch of emotion, one she could not wiggle out of. she took pride in freedom, in her role as a wanderer unbound by any obstacle or hardship.
this strange opposition was an unwanted intruded, and it brought on a ferocious headache. something must’ve gone wrong, perfectly awry, tilted her world to the left, if only for a moment.
the question is: what? she hasn’t managed to answer that quite yet.