Tremble.

This morning after you left, I remember trudging across the porch, tapping my dog lightly on her head, stepping into the house and shutting the front door gently. I don’t remember going up the stairs, entering my room and locking myself away from the world. Next thing I knew, I was pulling the curtains shut, careful to keep the tiniest ray of light from the morning sun out, making sure life couldn’t touch me, see me, or even smell me. I climbed into bed, curled up in a ball, wrapped the warm sheets tightly around me. There, in total darkness at 12 o’ clock in the afternoon, time stopped. I froze. I trembled. And I waited for life to find me again.

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