I found a half-written shopping list in my own handwriting and couldn’t remember starting it

Dear Delyara, Milk, rice, apples, detergent, birthday card — then nothing. I must have started writing it earlier and been interrupted before I finished. That is not unusual. What unsettled me was that I couldn’t remember the moment at all. The list felt like evidence of a version of myself moving through the house doing useful things while the rest of me was already somewhere else. This is what tiredness becomes in me now: not collapse, but holes. Not catastrophe, but slippage. Little absences around the edges of ordinary competence. I hate them more than I probably should.