HABIT.

i cleaned the living room.

it took hours. longer than it should have, because i kept stopping. standing still. forgetting what i was holding. forgetting where i was.

the rug’s back in place. floorboards all scrubbed raw. the towels are gone. but i swear the room still smells like rust.

the light in the hallway hasn’t stopped flickering either. i haven’t fixed it, though. i’m afraid that if i do, it’ll stop counting.

the blood is gone now. mostly.

there’s a faint pink hue at the edges of the baseboard, but i think i’m the only one who’ll notice.

i flipped the cushions. i lit a candle. i vacuumed. i even put on music for a little while. but it felt like i was trying to distract a ghost.

i’ve been trying to shake this feeling.

it isn’t fear. not quite.

it’s like my body knows that i’m not alone, even when i am. like there’s a second heartbeat tucked inside my ribcage.

i just can’t name it.

im writing this down so i dont forget today. so i dont start thinking the smear on the rug was tea.

ive locked all the doors again. i’ve shut the window. ive cleaned the knife.

i don’t know what i missed. the last journal entry was wrong, normal even though yesterday was anything but.

i read that again too. just once. too perfect, too human. but not my kind of human.

i don’t know anymore.