I opened my handbag and found a biscuit wrapper I don’t remember putting there

Dear Delyara, Evidence that I had once again fed myself in motion, in fragments, in between things. Not with care. Just with enough. Enough to keep going, enough to not faint, enough to keep functioning in a life that keeps rewarding functionality more obviously than it rewards proper nourishment. I threw it away and felt unexpectedly sad. Because hidden wrappers and rushed bites and late lunches and forgotten breakfasts are not random in my life anymore. They are a pattern. And patterns say more than incidents ever do.