when it snows

07 - stubborn, not capable

AUTUMN, 2022

Night has a way of making the apartment louder.

The heating ticks, a metronome I didn't ask for; the city lights leak through the glass and draw faint geometry on the floor; the fridge hums its smooth, indifferent note until I open it and remember there is nothing inside to sing for.

No water left.

I stare at the empty shelf hoping it might produce a miracle out of embarrassment. It doesn't. The last bottle sits on the counter, sweating; I've been rationing sips all evening like a cynical saint. When I tilt it back, the plastic crinkles under my fingers and a mean, thin line of water runs into my mouth—gone before it can do anything about the sand in my throat.

I close my eyes. In four, hold two, out four. The air scratches on the way in and makes a liar of the count.

It's been a week since the run-through.

A week of not answering texts. A week of swiping away "where are you?" like spam. A week of walking to the mirror wall at midnight, lacing one boot halfway, looking at the knot and feeling my whole body lock. Unlacing, then sitting on the floor with my knees up until my neck hurt from containing everything that wanted out. A week of training only in the smallest, meanest ways: planks until my arms shake; relevés until my calves hiss; rolling my shoulders down, back, down, back every time I pass my reflection, as if posture alone could count as progress.

A week of avoiding the ice again, like it might bite me on purpose.

My phone on the table is face down, silent. The pressed petal under the glass coaster looks like a bruise preserved in amber.

I tell myself I don't need water. I tell myself dehydration can kill people. I tell myself I'm not dramatic. Then I go to the door anyway, because dying out of pride would be the stupidest version of dying.

I pull on an oversized hoodie—the one that could fit two of me if I stood very close—and shove my hair into a low knot. The hoodie swallows my hands so I can't pick at them. I tuck my face so the concierge won't get a good look.

No concealer erases a week of not sleeping. The mirror by the door catches me on the way out: straight spine, pale mouth, a girl set to flight and pretending she doesn't know how.

Neck long, shoulders down, jaw neutral. My mother in my head is crisp as a ruler.

The elevator paints tired red numbers into the quiet. The mirror there is less forgiving: shadows under my eyes like smudged ink; lips cracked; a weak yellow light that makes my skin the colour of old paper. My mouth twitches to smile and then doesn't. I can't gather the muscles to fake it for myself.

Outside is cold enough to make my lungs earn their keep. The night has thinned the streets out; campus lies three blocks away, a soft dark ridge, track lights off. My thighs remember the last time I ran there and throb with petty accuracy. I zip the hoodie higher.

The convenience store on the corner burns white and open against the dark like an apology from the city for everything else it won't fix.

The bell chimes when I push in. Fluorescents. The floor-cleaner smell I depend on in public spaces: proof someone cares about surfaces even when nothing deeper is fixable. Freezers are practising for an orchestra that never performs. Two students in beanies argue softly over instant ramen like flavours decide their GPA.

I head straight to the water. The case is on the bottom shelf. Twenty-four bottles: forgiveness tomorrow, punishment right now. I squat and grip with both hands. The plastic bites; the corners bite; my fingers are all tendon and intention and not enough else.