The Bitter Taste of Cold Tea

Dear Delyara, It is 4:40 AM, and the first bird has just started chirping outside my window—a solitary, fragile sound that signals the end of my sanctuary. The night is officially over, and the dread is starting to settle into my stomach. I am staring down into a mug of builder's tea that has gone completely cold, a dark skin forming on the surface. I spent the last five hours doing absolutely nothing of value—just pacing the floor, listening to the floorboards creak, and letting my anxieties spiral out of control. My back is stiff from sitting in this broken armchair, and my mouth tastes like ash. In two hours, the alarms will go off across the city, engines will start, and I will have to find a way to drag this exhausted, heavy frame through another cycle of daylight obligations. I hate the dawn because it demands answers I don’t have.