I don't even remember how I finally drifted off that day.
When I woke, the distant hum of my mother and grandmother's voices drifted into the room. It felt like an eternity since I'd truly heard them—not just as sound, but as a reality I was part of.
"Wake up! Wake up, quickly! Get washed and get ready,"
My grandmother shouted from the hallway, her voice sharp but familiar as I lay unmoving beneath the sheets.
Then it clicked. Today was the day. We were going out for dinner.
I remembered how much I had been looking forward to this. Before everything happened—before the world turned gray—I had marked the days leading up to this evening. But now, as I slowly sat up, the excitement felt like a ghost of a sensation. Everything felt distant. It was as if some vital part of me had been left behind, trapped on the other side of a mirror.
I wandered into the kitchen. Mom was busy preparing a light breakfast to tide us over.
"Mom, Grandma... I missed you,"
I said, the words slipping out unbidden.
Mom let out a soft laugh, not looking up from her work.
"Stop saying you miss us just because we're finally going out," she teased.
"She's always like this," Grandma added with a smile. "Any excuse for a celebration."
They laughed, and I let them. They would never know the true weight behind those words, or the distance I had traveled just to stand in that kitchen again.
The evening arrived, and we made our way to a new restaurant that had recently opened in the city. The atmosphere was lively—the air was thick with chatter and the view was beautiful—but I felt like a hollow shell. We were sitting there, surrounded by our favorite things, yet I felt a strange, echoing emptiness.
Mom was happily tucked into her favorite meal, and Grandma was enjoying her mushrooms and noodles. I poked at my plate of dumplings; the weather had turned cold, and the steam rising from the bowl was the only thing that felt grounded in reality.
I tried my best to be present, to smile when they smiled, and for a few hours, it truly was a lovely day.
By the time we returned home, the conversation had run dry. We had talked ourselves out at the restaurant, so we drifted into our usual evening routines.
What am I doing? I thought, staring at my darkened phone screen. I should reach out. I should talk to my friends.
It was a cycle for me—a reflex to cut people off and deactivate my social media the moment life became too heavy to carry. With a steady breath, I logged back in, my accounts blinking back to life one by one.
Almost instantly, a notification popped up.
Jennie?
It was a message from my best friend. I could see where she had sent and deleted several messages over the weeks. She had been worried. Seeing her name on the screen hit me with a sudden, sharp pang of reality.
I had seen her in my memories while I was "away," and though it felt like years to me, the screen told me it had only been yesterday.