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The Next Morning

I cradle a cooling cup of coffee between my palms. Pointless habit, really. I can’t drink the stuff, but I sure do miss it. These days, I can only drink water, white wine... and blood, of course. Always blood. Gag.

The kids’ abandoned cereal bowls glare at me from the table. Nearby, the screen of my laptop glows softly.

I should close it. I should move on.

But instead, I read the message again.

Fang950: Then decide which parts of you are worth keeping. The rest was probably never real anyway.

He doesn’t know me; not really.

And yet… somehow, he sees everything.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I keep writing back to him. Maybe because he doesn’t ask anything of me. Or maybe because he’s the only one who doesn’t look away when I hint at the truth.

A stranger in the dark, whispering back the parts of me I’ve tried to bury.

I reach for the mouse, scroll up, reread more of our thread. And for a moment, I forget that I’m supposed to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother.

I’m just me.

And I’m not as alone as I thought.