The air feels heavier today.
Not the room. The room is the same.
But my chest feels wrong.
Tight. Like breathing through wool.
I used to carry an inhaler everywhere.
I don’t have it now.
I won’t tell him.
If I tell him I can’t breathe, he’ll fix it.
And then he’ll own that too.
No.
This is mine.
Day 121
I woke up sitting straight up, dragging air into my body.
My ribs hurt.
He asked if I was tired.
I told him no.
He adjusts everything in this room like I’m a draft he can improve.
He does not get my breath.
Day 126
The tightness comes faster.
I write slower.
He noticed.
He took the chair once.
He took the lights.
He took time.
He does not get to take the way I leave.
If this is how it ends, then this is something he cannot revise.
If I tell him, he will fix the air.
If I stay quiet, I choose the ending.
I am tired.
