In her corner
Laying on the bedroom floor, the bed seemed too far– a comfort she felt like she didn’t deserve. The room had one window, overlooking the vastness of the city. The overarching shadows of the buildings towered over her small mid-rise apartment, engulfing her, taunting her: a reminder that no matter how hard she tried, she would always be small.
She looked to her phone, waiting for something to pop up that could take her mind off the emptiness gnawing at her. The TV blared in the background as another episode of Bojack played while she kept going back and forth between Instagram, TikTok, and Reddit.
It had been three days since she’d felt the weight of words leave her mouth. Her tongue rested heavily on the back of her teeth, unused, except for the slow, absent-minded drag around the roof of her mouth.
Her days blur into one. Wake up. Wait to go to school. Come back. Wait to go to sleep. It hadn’t always been like this; there was a time that she felt passionate about cultivating a sense of self, but now all her actions feel regurgitated; all her words feel redundant.
Her phone rings. It’s Mom. She flips it down and hears it ring until the call fades. She waits, listening for her mom’s footsteps– half wanting to hear a light knock on the door. We have separate corners now– me on one side, Mom on another. The middle serves as a silent reminder of the distance between us.
Out of habit, Amani picks up her phone again, and a new message lights up the screen.
Mom: Hi honey, I'm getting Chinese? Do you want anything?
The question felt too light, as if the months of distance never existed. Amani used to love Friday Chinese takeout with her mother. The couch that she loved so fondly, how it dipped where they always sat. The sound of their laughter lit up the now-silent living room of their apartment. There were playful arguments about who would get the last dumpling– mom would always let Amani win.
Shaking her head, she goes back to her phone. Eyes glued to the screen, staring till the text message blurs and tears run down her eyes. She closes her messages and opens up Instagram again. Her mind wanders from the shambles of her relationship to this new lipstick that's supposed to stay for 24 hours.
The lights turn off in the living room, and she hears her mother go to bed. The click of the door signaling the end of another opportunity for connection.
