THE WARMTH OF THE PLASTIC TEA CUP IN AN EMPTY GATEROOM

Dear Delyara, It is 1:40 AM, and the tea inside this thin, ribbed plastic cup has already gone lukewarm. I’m holding it with both hands anyway, just to feel something that resembles a pulse against my palms. Outside, a heavy summer mist has rolled off the canal, swallowing the shipping containers until they look like giant, sleeping beasts in the dark. The silence right now isn't peaceful; it’s the heavy, suffocating kind that makes you hear the blood rushing in your own ears. I haven't spoken a single word aloud since I checked in at 6:00 PM. Sometimes, I clear my throat just to remind myself that my voice still works, that I am still a person existing in a physical room, and not just another shadow moving across the automated security feed.