That’s the most persistent one. The Liar. It doesn’t scream; it whispers, using my own cadence and syntax. I know it’s not mine, but the seamless forgery is why I spend the first hour of every day fighting the urge to dissolve back into the sheets, to surrender the day before it even loads.
I manage to sit up. The act itself is a tactical victory.
My room, with its bland beige walls, is supposed to be a sanctuary, but it often feels like a thinly defended fortress.
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