Page 62 of In Somnis

I draw a shaky breath and hurry back to my apartment, closing my door quietly behind me before locking it.

New thoughts and questions run through my head at full speed, but I shove them into the same place I keep the other unhelpful ones. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Shoving. Compartmentalizing. Stacking feeling next to feeling until the cupboard door barely closes.

Mom would have told me to change into some nice clothes to feel more like myself, but first, she would have gently bullied me into a shower.

“Lenny, be soft with yourself. Be soft.”

“I’m trying,” I whisper to the empty room, breathing deeply to keep the tears at bay.

I feel so damn alone in this.

Is asking to get struck by lightning right here, right now, asking for too much?

This is the part where someone should tell me I’m being dramatic.

Tessa would’ve jumped at the opportunity, mocking my spiral without mercy. I can almost hear her voice with a dry little jab.

“You’re gonna be a great headline, Lenny. Woman dies tragically, nails remain immaculate.”

My gaze falls to my citrusy fingernails.

Are these the nails I want to die with?

Would ghost-me float around with smiley citrus nail art forever?

Honestly, yes, but that’s not the point.

It will be okay. It has to be okay.

No ghost nails yet, Lenny.

Shower. Clothes. Normal human behavior.

I strip down and turn the knob, stepping under the spray. The water beats down on me until my shoulders loosen, and the fog in my head thins a little.

It doesn’t fix anything, but it gets me vertical.

By the time I’ve dressed and pinned back my hair with a lemon clip, I almost look like a person.

“You’re fine.” I meet my own eyes in the mirror, applying mascara. “No matter what, you are not crazy.”

My stomach growls, deeply unimpressed by the pep talk as I finish applying blush and my peach lipstick, just enough to look like someone who isn’t actively unraveling.

Breakfast. Coffee.

But when I step into the kitchen, I deflate. I don’t have a coffee machine.

Add that to the growing list of things I apparently need.

I could take Derek up on the car offer. There’s no way everything will fit in the Beetle, but then again, buying real furniture for what might be a few weeks feels excessive.

What I need are answers. Or at least someone to tell me what the hell to do next, because my internal decision-making system is clearly compromised.

I flop onto the mattress and grab my phone.

I need someone neutral and safe.

Someone who believes in weird things just enough that I won’t sound insane for asking.