Rainy Day Reflections

August 27th

I’m sitting here with my knees pulled up to my chest, the cheap spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, and my pen shaking like it’s got something important to say. The rain’s tapping against the window in these soft, uneven bursts that make me think of someone typing slowly, like they’re unsure of the words they’re putting down. I feel that way, too. Like every thought is a hesitant key pressed.

It smells like wet pavement and coffee grounds, even though I haven’t brewed a cup yet. I want one, I think. The taste of bitterness feels right for a day like this. It’s not cold in here, but I’ve got this sweatshirt zipped up tight, sleeves swallowing my hands like I’m hiding something. Maybe I am.

There’s this dull buzzing in my ears, a mix of the fridge humming, the rain tapping, the neighbor’s dog barking two doors down—sharp little bursts that jolt me every time. I can’t tell if I’m more awake because of the noise or in spite of it.

I keep thinking about that dream I had last night. It’s fuzzy now, slipping away every time I try to pin it down. There were trees, tall and black like they’d been burned. The sky was too bright, like staring into a flashlight. And I was running. Or floating? It felt like moving without moving. I remember looking down and my hands weren’t mine. They were smaller, like a kid’s. I woke up before I could see my face in the puddle I was kneeling beside. Maybe that’s a mercy.

I don’t know why dreams linger like this, like a taste you can’t quite name but you know you’ve had before. Maybe I’m chasing something. Or maybe something’s chasing me.

God, that sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? I should probably cross that out, but I won’t. Not tonight.

I think I’m lonely. There. I said it. Even though the apartment’s full of stuff—books stacked so high they’re threatening to topple over, the half-dead plant on the windowsill, dishes I keep telling myself I’ll wash tomorrow. It’s all just… noise. The kind of noise that makes it easier to ignore how quiet it really is.

I tried calling Mom earlier. She didn’t pick up. Not unusual, really. She’s probably busy. Or maybe she saw my name on the screen and thought, Not tonight. I can’t blame her. I don’t even know what I’d say.

There’s a draft sneaking under the window. I can feel it brushing my ankle, a whisper that makes me think someone’s there even though I know there’s not. I keep glancing at the reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see another face over my shoulder. Silly.

I’ve been meaning to go through that box in the closet. The one I shoved back there three years ago when I moved in. I can’t even remember what’s in it. Probably nothing important. Old notebooks like this one. Maybe photographs. Maybe nothing at all. But I can’t shake the feeling that opening it would change something. Like breaking a seal on a jar that’s been sitting too long.

The rain’s louder now. It’s coming down in sheets, hammering the roof so hard the sound is almost soothing. Like white noise. Like the world’s trying to drown out my thoughts so I can rest.

I should turn on a light. The only thing lighting the room is the gray glow from outside. My reflection in the glass looks… strange. Pale. Hollow-eyed. I wonder if someone walking by would even see me here, pressed up against the window with my notebook. Or if I’d just look like another shadow in a too-dark room.

I can’t stop thinking about that dream. Those burned trees. That blinding sky. The way my chest ached when I woke up, like I’d been holding my breath for hours. Maybe I was. Maybe I’m still holding it.

This apartment smells like dust and rain now. The kind of smell that clings to your clothes. I don’t even remember the last time I went out, really out. Grocery runs don’t count. Walking the trash to the curb doesn’t count. It feels like I’ve been sitting here for years, even though I know it’s only been a few days since I last saw another face.

I think about that box again. About opening it. About finding something I forgot I lost. Maybe I should get up and do it now. Maybe I should wait until the morning.

No. I’ll wait.

The rain’s starting to ease. The neighbor’s dog has finally gone quiet. My pen’s running out of ink, skipping over words like it’s tired. Maybe I’ll make that coffee. Maybe I’ll finally turn on a light. Or maybe I’ll just sit here a little longer, listening to the rain fade into silence, pretending I’m not afraid of what might happen when it stops.