I ate toast at 11 p.m. because dinner never reached me properly

Dear Delyara, The dinner happened. Plates were served, people ate, conversation happened, somebody asked for more, somebody spilled water, somebody needed help finding something for tomorrow. I was present in all the ways that matter from the outside. And yet by eleven o’clock I was standing in the kitchen making toast because my body still felt unfinished. I think that is one of the lonelier forms of domestic life — when nourishment happens around you but doesn’t quite arrive in you. Not because no one cares. Because the evening kept interrupting the part where I might have sat and received it. The toast was simple and unnecessary and deeply satisfying. It tasted like finally being included in my own day.