𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖞 𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖊

don’t flatter yourself cowboy, i was looking at your horse.

i started pouring vodka before noon, told myself it was for the aesthetic. clear in a teacup, a soft blur to the morning light. it made everything feel cinematic, like i was the sad girl in a french film who never really learns her lesson. the days slipped by smooth and sleepy. grocery stores felt like liminal spaces. i moved through it all with my head tilted, my smile a little slow. people called me mysterious, but i was just a little drunk. it wasn’t a spiral, not exactly. more like a soft decline. a decision made in half-steps. my phone stayed on silent. i forgot how much time passed between waking up and sundown. the world stayed loud but i stopped listening. sometimes i wondered if anyone could tell. other times, i hoped they couldn’t. i drank before i needed to. before anything even went wrong. it wasn’t sad, not on the surface. it just became part of the weather. mornings felt too sharp without it. i liked the hum behind my eyes, the way things softened at the edges. i could float through conversations, nod when needed, laugh on time. but i wasn’t really there…. not in the way people are supposed to be. i remember staring at my own hands and thinking they didn’t look like mine. once, i watched a stranger cry and felt nothing. another time, i smiled at my reflection for too long and didn’t recognize the expression. there was always a glass nearby. always a reason not to stop. even when i tried, the silence it left was unbearable. i don’t miss it. but i miss not feeling everything so clearly. i miss the fog, even if it was killing me slowly. i miss being a ghost in my own story. it was easier than living in it.