You

You stand as you're having dinner. The porridge, left too long to cook has become soggy rice instead. Fuu, fuu, you blow a spoonful after you had your tongue burnt. Staring down at the bottom of the pot full of scratches, you play with the rice and listen to the sticky mound of complaints being pushed to the right side. It's hot, and the lenses of your spectacles fog up with the rising steam's last breath. Your face, you think, must probably be flushed now. Then you chuckle, because your cheeks are coloured artificially anyway.

Rip, there goes your last packet of crispy laver. You've had it stocked up since last year, so you had always wondered up til now when you'd actually eat it. There are no lingering regrets attached to it, because once you go to the supermarket and walk down the Korean and Japanese food aisle, on the bottom most shelf, you'll see it there, sealed in a transparent film with 13 other. But even if it is no longer there, waiting for you on that rarely disturbed rack, you wouldn't feel sad. The last time you walked down that aisle, you found something better, didn't you?

Still standing, you continue with dinner.

In your left hand is a thin layer of laver, in your right, a soup spoon which you use for every meal simply because you think its rounded head is cute. Actually, you really hate eating with the spoon; it doesn't fit. Scoop, a quarter is enough. Spread it on the laver, fold it in half, then put it in your mouth. You hear the crunch, but feel only the bloated grains of rice suffering from overhydration as you chew. 

You've finished the laver, but half a pot of rice is left. 

It's quiet, you think, and for a moment you wanted to smile but then the screams of your housemate and her companion spread across the boundaries of two doors. You want to sigh, but the heat only swells up inside. Perhaps, it was the warmth of the rice?

The counter is a mess, and so is your desk. You look at the contrasting colours of all the things that you own, collecting dust while on display; strewn across the table because you couldn't be bothered to find a place for them after coming home from class. Everything is so bright. The walls, a lime green, and the bright reds and yellows of the figurines on display. Even the glass bottles you bought last month are red and yellow. Yet, this cheerful palette fails to brighten up your life.

As the evening comes to a close, your make-up hasn’t been removed but you’re already in your sleeping dress. All evening, you’ve been under the blanket, with the fan turned off. Last week’s laundry is still drying on your balcony door. You know, you’re never stuffing them into the cupboard because it is already so full that the door isn’t able to shut properly.

Your phone is an arm’s length away. Its black screen, a mirror of the void that is eating you up. Even the notification light won’t blink, so why bother keeping it so close? There are less spams on the family chat too, that chat which you had un-muted because for a long time, their inconsequential chain mails were the only light blinking in the dark. It vibrates, sometimes, and you set up your hopes even though you know it’s just CNN bothering you with the latest updates on US-Russian relations.

Confidence, you wish you had it. With it, you could do anything. But all you have is an unnecessary lump of fear that’s stuck in your throat. You can’t speak. The words won’t be voiced because you have lost yours. So you write, because then, you can’t hear how your voice trembles once it leaves your mouth. Only when you use your voice to speak the words of another does the fear disappear.

You should sleep, you want to cry, you need to shower.