- I make the 5am wakeup.
- Petrichor.
- I rage against the situation, the behavior, the outcome–but not him. This is not who you are.
- We pay and head to our next errand. I barely make it out of the store before I have to lean against the wall or else sag under the weight of guilt and a dozen internal accusations and fabricated regrets.
- It’s always one more thing.
- Are they still angel investors if they’re family?
- Another bowl of pasta, another night of hands that feel swollen but aren’t, with a bonus impending migraine. I’m starting to suspect I’m getting old.
- Calculate. Recalculate. Nothing in the numbers can change the way the flesh sits on my bones. On my soul.
- I feel strangely validated by how badly it went.
- One week.
