Page 132 of Anything But Lonely

So does the music. I don’t even have the strength to put it back on.

The silence was too loud until I stopped caring about that too.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I heard it.

Minutes?

Hours?

The pain in my stomach is what finally gets me moving.

Not because I’m ready to face the day.

Not because I suddenly feel better.

Because my body has reached the point where it refuses to be ignored.

My bladder aches painfully, the kind of desperate discomfort that makes me wonder how long I’ve been lying here without moving. My mouth feels like sandpaper, my throat dry and scratchy from not drinking enough water. My stomach twists painfully, caught somewhere between hunger and nausea, reminding me that I can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t just a few bites of whatever was closest.

For a few seconds, I just lie there staring at the ceiling.

Trying to convince myself that standing up is easy.

That it’s just standing.

People do it every day.

But my body feels heavy, like I’ve been sinking into this mattress for years instead of days.

Still, I force myself up.

The second my feet hit the floor, my entire world tilts.

A rush of dizziness crashes over me, the room spinning so violently I have to reach out for something—anything—to keep myself upright. My knees buckle, and I grab the edge of the nightstand as black spots creep into my vision.

The corners blur first.

Then everything.

For one terrifying second, there’s nothing.

No room.

No floor.

No sound.

Just darkness.

I swallow hard, waiting for the world to come back.

And when it does, I’m still standing there, shaking, realizing just how long I’ve let myself disappear.

But I just don’t care.

My head is pounding.

No.