Regret is not a thought. It is a metallic taste.
It sits on your tongue before you open your eyes. The ceiling looks unfamiliar, like you’ve woken up in the wrong life again. You lie still because moving feels like agreeing to something you’re not sure you signed up for.
Morning is the worst. The world hasn’t started yet, which means there’s still time to choose. Stay in bed. Get up. Answer the message. Ignore it. Commit. Don’t. Scroll. Sleep. Move. Don’t.
Each option a thread between your fingers.
You know what happens when you pull.
The tightening starts before you move. Small. Familiar. There is always a second, thin enough to ignore, where you could listen.
You don’t.
You have learned to call this independence.
It is in the room with you. Not hovering. Not accusing. Just present. When you reach for the easier answer, it doesn’t flinch.
It already knows how this ends.
Not because it can see the future.
Because it has watched you here before.
You’ve seen what happens when you pull a loose thread. The sweater doesn’t collapse at once. A line loosens. Then another. You keep tugging because you believe the fabric will forgive you.
It doesn’t.
By the time the cold reaches your skin, what you’re holding is no longer something you can wear.
This is not the first time. It won’t be the last. You stopped being surprised a while ago.
Somewhere, a version of you is still running. You hear her sometimes. She would have paused.
You don’t.
You keep tasting a life that isn’t yours anymore — not because it was stolen, but because you stepped away from it. You don’t know if she’s happier. You only know she didn’t make a philosophy out of flinching.
I stopped mourning her somewhere along the way. I don’t remember when. I didn’t try very hard.
The air shifts.
Your body knows before your mind does. A pulse in your fingertips. A small resistance you could still honor.
You don’t.
You move anyway.
The door closes. The word lands. The step backward settles.
And then —
Silence.
The room remains intact. The ceiling doesn’t crack. No alarms sound.
You stand there inside the quiet, waiting for something to correct you.
Nothing comes.
It never does.