I Wiped the Table Twice Because the First Time My Mind Was Somewhere Else

Dear Delyara, My hands were doing it. I was not really there. The first wipe was automatic, body-only, while my head was replaying a conversation from earlier. A tone. A sentence. The thing I wished I had answered differently. The old private theatre of fatigue and self-questioning that starts up once the practical noise of the day leaves enough room for it. Then I looked at the table and saw the crumbs I had missed. So I did it again. That moment felt more honest than it should have. A simple domestic act exposing how split I had become between body and mind by early evening. No wonder I am tired. I keep living the same day twice — once in reality, once in the replay.