I wake up in the morning and slowly get ready. Wash my face. Steaming water. I make my way to the kitchen. Neat and tidy. I gather up something to make breakfast. This goes here. That goes there. Cannot forget where these belong. The house is quiet. He's at work. I am alone. The house is filled with the smell of breakfast. I debate on setting my hand against the burner. I sit at the kitchen table and chew my food twenty times. Everything I do is boring. Everything I do is exaggerated. I put away the supplies. Slightly out of place. Slightly out of order. Will he notice? I know the answer and do it anyways. I clean the kitchen but leave a couple crumbs on the kitchen table. A sign of life. Reminder that I am here and that I am real. I get dressed and avoid thinking about the day I have before me. First I straighten up our bed. Then tidy up our restroom attached to our bedroom. I do not think of the guestroom or the bathroom downstairs. The guestroom is locked and the restroom will be cleaned this after- I do not think too far ahead. I stay in the moment. Thinking far ahead hurts me. This is how I go on for hours until I finally get downstairs and I decide to lay on the couch for awhile. Here, I lay and I lay and I lay and I lay. Until I sleep and I sleep and I sleep- the front door is being played with. He is home. I do not worry about not getting all the chores done. If he lectures. He lectures. He comes in, a quick, Hello, how're you? said before he goes up the stairs to our room. I debate staying here, instead I slink up to the stairs and grab the railing with both my hands. It takes everything in me to get up. He's rubbing his face sitting at the foot of our bed. Stressed. Tired. Something. I don't care. I wish the guestroom was unlocked. He says he doesn't feel like cooking and doesn't give me a chance to offer instead. Says we'll get takeout. I don't say what I want, he knows what to get. He pats me on the shoulder as he heads down the stairs and I slip into our room, climbing onto our bed, sleeping sleeping sleeping until dinner gets here. He stands in the doorway telling me to eat. Comes over sets his hand on my forehead. In his glasses I can see my reflection I don't focus on his sad eyes. I look sunken and exhausted. I slowly trail behind him. Drowning out his nonstop droning about work work work. He has my food set out for me, all ready to eat. The crumbs wiped away. He had nothing to say. We eat in silence because I do not feel like talking. He doesn't push me, for once. I only eat a few bites, I feel incredibly ill. I excuse myself without having to say anything and he tells me to go get some rest. He'd bring up some medicine. I do not listen, do not wait. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and debate weeping at having to go up again. Both hands grip the railing and one two three steps I'm up. I crawl into bed and hope tomorrow is different. I know it won't be, but I hope anyways.