I wake up, blinking awareness back into my mind. Sunlight filters through the windows; an undeserved kiss of warmth on my skin. The room is unfamiliar. This bed is not my own; it’s different, soft, comforting. Regret ebbs into my stomach, the sweet, dreaming body beside me is a stranger to me. A face I can't recall. I get up to leave, hoping not to wake them. For them it can still be a dream, for me I know this vicious cycle will repeat. Over and over until it kills me.
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Comments (1)
Wow, the dark emotion in this is so stark compared to the softness of the bed and the brightness of the day. I like the poetic take on circadian rhythm, like the cycle the speaker is in is its foil. Well done! This is a really good micro fiction.