September 1

The computer is still warm. Not from anything it did — just the residual heat of being on, like a stove after the fire’s gone out. You can still stand close to it and feel something, even though there’s nothing left to say.

On the screen, a window I haven’t closed in hours. Words I wrote and forgot about, the way you forget a thought when you’re falling asleep — not because it was unimportant, but because the mind is too tired to hold onto everything at once.

I could read them again. Maybe I would understand. Maybe they’d be different now, like how a house looks when you come back after being out all day — same walls, different light, as if something moved while you weren’t looking.

The cursor doesn’t blink anymore. The screen is dark. I’m in the chair, still warm from sitting here too long, and I don’t remember what I was trying to do.

Somewhere outside, a car passes. Not loud, just enough to remind me there’s a world that doesn’t stop when I close my eyes. It keeps going without needing anyone to watch it.

I stay in the chair for a while longer. Then I stand up. The house is quiet. The screen stays dark.