the worst part about living with a roommate are the moments you need to break down. you need to find a specific time to do it, whether she’s away to just cry into your bed, or simply sleeping. if she’s sleeping, you would lock yourself in the bathroom and sob quietly in order for her not to wake up. whether it’s lowered hiccups or covering your mouth, you try hard so you don’t have her wake up in the middle of the night to check on you.
in the bathroom you slide down the wall and face the sink and mirror. you bunch your legs to your chest and cry into your knees, or sit on your knees and douse your hands. you grab the toilet tissue and you aggressively rub your face dry. you think you’re okay, but the emotions spill over like an overfilled cup, so there’s the cycle of wetting and drying. you face gets sore and puffy. your neck aches as if it was screaming for you to stop crying. you stay there for an hour trying to fix yourself up, but then the structure you tried to reconstruct tumbles down again, adding another hour in that bathroom. time moves fast though. you would get so used to this cycle that it’s already 2:30 AM. you watch the mirror in case the door creaks open.
if your roommate comes in, what’ll you say? “just a bad dream?” “stressed about a test tomorrow?” there’s hardly an explanation for this feeling. it’s hard to describe something that consistently changes form and definition inside. what can i say? “i was doing laundry then suddenly there was an overwhelming rush of emotions that hit me like a wave, and i’m currently washed out.” the second worst part about this night is when you go to sleep. it isn’t easy to push things aside and dream. you lie there for a while until your swollen eyes go numb and just doze off.
will waking up be hard? you wonder. you float in a dark void and wonder if you are prepared for the next day. is the next day ready for me? will i be okay? is this how it goes? you wonder. you wonder. you wonder.
