You get dressed to go on patrol like you do most nights. Dark lipstick, black tank top, everything always as it is. You lace your boots with your barely feeling hands, slowly navigating your not-quite-there body. It’s hard not to linger, to stare at the lines and curves of your face and body in the mirror, mapping them in an aimless effort to see a person staring back. It takes more energy than you have in order to look away right now. And so you stand there, and you stare, and your eyes (or rather the eyes you’re using) drift to the dark hair falling over your shoulders that never seems to do what you want it to, even though you’re never quite sure what you want it to do.

The blankets rustle, and slowly, too slowly, you’re drawn back to where you stand. She’s right there asleep in the bed beside you, blonde hair falling over her face. She could wake up at any point in time, and how could you explain this, the standing and the staring? You forgot that you have life. You remember now that she’s there and that she cares, and that you made a deal with yourself that you would never stand still long enough to think, long enough for her to notice, long enough for her to care. So you don’t stand still anymore, not longer than you have to. And today is no exception to your rule.

You feel the weight of wood inside the pocket of your leather jacket as you button it up. It would ground you most days, and you’re no longer staring at a reflection in a mirror that you don’t quite recognize, so it works for now. Your keys jangle softly in your hand as you leave the apartment just outside of Cleveland that you’ve been sharing for these past few months.