Page 177

The air feels heavier today.

Not the room. The room is the same.

But my chest feels wrong.

Tight. Like breathing through wool.

I used to carry an inhaler everywhere.

I don’t have it now.

I won’t tell him.

If I tell him I can’t breathe, he’ll fix it.

And then he’ll own that too.

No.

This is mine.

Day 121

I woke up sitting straight up, dragging air into my body.

My ribs hurt.

He asked if I was tired.

I told him no.

He adjusts everything in this room like I’m a draft he can improve.

He does not get my breath.

Day 126

The tightness comes faster.

I write slower.

He noticed.

He took the chair once.

He took the lights.

He took time.

He does not get to take the way I leave.

If this is how it ends, then this is something he cannot revise.

If I tell him, he will fix the air.

If I stay quiet, I choose the ending.

I am tired.