I hadn't been sleeping well, not in the dramatic, tortured way, just the usual, late nights, dragging into early mornings, too much screen time, too much silence.

You stop noticing how tired you are when it's constant.

I thought maybe it was the recent job loss, or the breakup, or the fact that I was living

in a sublet where the ceiling fan clicked like a metronome made to measure disappointment.

People said I seemed distant.

I was.

I'd tell people I was fine.

I'd say it enough that I almost believed it.

But a few nights in, something changed.

I was washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window at nothing in particular, when I heard it.

Not a voice exactly.

More like a sentence dropped in my head.

Complete, neutral.

He dries the glass.

He stares too long.

I blinked.

The sponge slipped in my hand.

It wasn't my thought. That's what threw me. It didn't feel like me thinking.

It felt like someone else was thinking at me.

I told myself it was stress, insomnia, internal monologue with too much flair.

The next day, on a call with my sister, she asked how I was holding up.

I opened my mouth to lie.

...