The water from the shower has long since dried on my skin, but the memory of it lingers—the way steam curled against the mirror, the way heat seeped into my bones, the way I stood beneath the spray longer than necessary, hoping it would wash away something I couldn't name.
It didn't.
I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the pull in my shoulders, the quiet pop in my spine after hours of tension I didn't realize I'd been carrying.
The warmth of the room wraps around me like a blanket left too long in the dryer—comforting, almost, but heavy.
Too heavy.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips beneath my weight. The sheets are cool against my palms—crisp, clean, faintly scented with my phromense.
I press my hands flat against them, feeling the weave, the slight give of the fabric beneath my fingers. Anything to anchor myself here.
