NICK
The couch was empty. Obviously. It was correctly empty.
I unpacked in a silence so thick it felt like I was moving through water.
Coffee in the cupboard. Medication in the bathroom cabinet. Protein in the fridge. When I got to the vegetables, I paused. I don't buy fresh vegetables on weeknights.
I'm never home enough to cook them. They'll go to waste. They'll rot in the crisper drawer until they turn into a brown sludge.
I put them in anyway.
I put the bar of chocolate in the cupboard with the rest that remained from the last purchase. I stared at them for a moment, then shut the door.
I walked toward the bedroom, and as I passed the couch, my gaze moved to it again.
It was involuntary. A habit I had formed in forty-eight hours and couldn't break in seven days.
I took a shower. It was hot... too hot. I stood under the spray for five minutes after I was done scrubbing, just letting the water beat against my neck.
I never do that. It's a waste of time and water.
