Somewhere, Someone Is Happy

You open the fridge and stand there too long, staring at a carton of eggs like it might say something first. You eat cereal for dinner. The milk hasn’t expired, so you call that a win. There’s a bruise on your leg that looks like Australia, and you think about naming it, just to have something that belongs to you. Sydney turns purple and green and strange. You watch her change like the weather.

The group chat hasn’t replied to your meme from three days ago. You thought it was a good one. You try not to think about it. You tell yourself they’re busy. You tell yourself a lot of things.

Your socks don’t match, and you don’t really care if they do. You sleep so long your mattress becomes a coffin. Your parents visit less now. When they do, they bring flowers like you’re already dead. Your mom straightens a crooked frame on the wall and doesn’t comment on the dust. Your dad flashes you a sad smile. They leave leftovers you won’t eat.

There’s a spider crawling on the ceiling. You wonder if he has his life together, if his spider friends respond to his memes. You try not to think about how many hours you’ve spent like this—ceiling-staring, soul-sinking.

You scroll on your phone: news, ads. A raccoon in someone else’s kitchen looks happier than you’ve been in months. Instagram tells you the girl who bullied you in high school is pregnant with twins.

You close the app. You don’t care who’s rich or in love or buying their third goldendoodle. You already carry too many stories from people you don’t talk to anymore. Your heart is cluttered with postcards from places you were never meant to stay.

So you lie down on the floor. The ceiling has no answers, but at least it doesn’t move. At least it stays. Somewhere, a car drives by. Somewhere, a dog barks. Somewhere, someone is in love, or getting married, or burning toast at 2 a.m. because they can’t sleep either. Somewhere, life is happening. But here, in this room, it’s just you and the ceiling and the spider.