Melodramatic Morning

MC's thoughts between the moment they get up to the one they decide to grab their phone.

Here are a few questions to help guide your feedback:
(Simple Yes/No answers are welcomed, but brutally honest explanations are preferred.)

> Did this scene make you want to keep reading? Would you read a whole chapter of it?
> Did it remind you of another book?
> How do you feel about the main character? Do you care what happens to them?
> At what point, if any, did you want to stop reading before the end/felt like you were reading just to get through it?
> If you stopped reading before the end, what made you stop?
> What lines stuck with you (good or bad)? What was it about the story that remained with you
> Was anything predictable or too vague/confusing?
> Is the voice or tone working for you? If not, what feels off?
> What emotion (if any) did this scene/section leave you with?
> Is there a part that felt fake, forced, overwritten, or just off to you? Point it out—even if you're not sure why it didn’t work.
> Was there anything in the story that didn't make sense?
> Did this story remind you of another book or author? If yes, who/what—and in what way?

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I woke up.

Not because I was well-rested, nor because I wanted to, but because of the sharp, hollow sound of a notification—like a fork clattering on tile. "General and Differential Psychology – 9:00." I keep meaning to delete the calendar, but every time I try, I can’t figure out how. It’s easier to let it jolt me awake every morning. Let it be my punishment for not dealing with it.


Behind my eyelids, the dream lingers.

Not the details, just the feelings. Helplessness, inadequacy. Always. Words I can’t say. Betrayals my waking mind saw coming, but my subconscious still begs to avoid. Abandoned, used, tricked, ashamed, stupid for hoping. It’s the same story, every night. I’d cancel the subscription if I could. How could I wake up feeling rested, sleep felt like being tied up to a chair while my brain dusts off its greatest hits. And every morning, I wake up to the encore. I don’t wake with relief. I wake with resignation.


My neck aches.

I’ve been lying on my side too long. The mattress beneath me is cratered—sunken in like a footprint in snow that never melts. I paid extra for “orthopedic support.” It gave up before I did. The room is still technically dark, but the sunlight—intrusive—leaks through the black dress I haphazardly tacked over the window, like a makeshift curtain holding the room in perpetual twilight. It mocks my failed attempt to keep the day out. I don’t remember when I started running from the sun.



Sunlight used to make me happy.

Even when I was too poor to go on vacation during summer break, I found warmth and hope in sunlight. But this? This doesn’t feel like sunlight anymore. It feels like surveillance. A pale, cold spotlight aimed at me like a cop’s flashlight through a car window. What are you doing here? Why are you not partaking in the day? Get up. Hit your mark. Deliver your lines. No, it wasn’t sunlight—it was my cue and judging by the state of things, it seems I’m once again slipping into the tired role of a melodramatic adult, repeating a script I’ve long outgrown but can’t seem to escape.



I could play someone else. But I know it’s a lost cause.

“Up and at ’em,” I'd say but my brain would shrug. I can’t assert dominance over it anymore. The treats ran out months ago. It knows I am no master. I am the joke.


Maybe my bladder would get me up, but I don’t.

There’s something humiliating about giving in to basic needs. Acknowledging them feels like admitting I’m still part of this joke of a day, still belonging to this circus. I don’t want to belong to anything anymore. Maybe if I hold it long enough, my body will forget it ever needed anything at all?


My eyes drift across the wreckage of my room. The chaos stares back at me like a mirror. Resigned, tired, disgusted, but past caring.

Every surface is a witness. An invisible audience. The mirror, the screens, the walls, the new expensive vacuum I bought in a “new me” delusion moment—silently judging me, tired of trying to guilt me into motion.

They stare at me like a disappointed gym coach. “We had a plan,” it seems to say. “You promised us a montage.”

But shame and disappointment do not work anymore. The floor is covered in discarded plastic wrappers, clothes thrown everywhere, half-eaten snacks lie where I dropped them. The air is stale, thick with the scent of old pre-cooked meals and the faint metallic tang of existential despair. This is my habitat now. My own personal hell. A landfill with a roof—not even mine.



I shift slightly, and something crackles under my hip.

I don’t look. I know it’s a wrapper. My bed isn’t a place to rest anymore. It’s a graveyard of unfinished comforts. Chocolate stains mark the fabric—dark patches of guilt. Cookie crumbs embedded in the sheets like failed promises. Even comfort leaves a mess when it goes wrong.



My hair is greasy, my head fogged over and my mouth, coated with the sour taste of sugar and regret.

My sweaty shirt smells like a fever. It doubles as a napkin. It wears yesterday like a badge. I pick absent-mindedly at the peeling skin around my nails until a sting warns me that I’ve drawn blood. I wipe it against my shirt. It blends in. Yesterday wasn’t replaced. It calcified. The weight of it—and the days before—clings to me like an old coat. There is no new day. Just recycled despair.


A patch of light shifts on the ceiling—barely—but enough to tell me: Time is moving.

Whether I join or not. And it doesn't care about my melodramatic crisis.


I sigh.

I burrito myself in the blanket and sink into the mattress. I press my cheek against the corner of the sheet. The “allergy-free” tag brushes my face—cold and clinical. I stare at the ceiling. I fiddle with a loose thread, wrap it tight around my finger. Watch the skin go white. Keep going. Even if I did get up, what for? Cleaning ?


I tried cleaning.

Maybe last week. Or last year. It made no difference. The mess always wins. I picked up clothes. Put on music. Tried to feel like a person. Turned around—and the mess had reclaimed its throne. Like the room rejected change. The entropy won. And I let it.

I tried writing to-dos lists every day, hoping for structure, but I never finish them. The act of checking things off became a repetitive ritual that brought no satisfaction or sense of accomplishment. There’s one on my desk. My therapist insisted I make one. I don’t even have to look. Brush teeth. Shower. Do one load of laundry. The boxes are all empty. They told me ticking them off would make me feel good. But I never felt it. No dopamine hit. No reward. No point. The checklist didn’t look like a map anymore. It looked like a eulogy.


System overload.

Every time I try to climb out, it pulls me back under. Like a black tide. Unlike Sisyphus, I dropped the stone and let it roll over me. Now I just lie here—flattened by the weight of my own story. I grab the list and throw it in the trash but miss. It falls on the floor, blending with the rest.


I had no desire of death, I have desires of being left alone.

If I keep ignoring life, does it eventually leave me alone? I stopped answering letters. Stopped picking up calls. Stopped cleaning. Stopped apologizing. Let the day rot around me.


I should care.

I should try. I should give a damn. I should do something about this. But the word should feels so heavy. It belongs to people who believe time is real and improvement is possible.


I nuzzle my pillow, hoping I could go back to sleep.

A tiny yank at my hair cuts through my thoughts. My fingers drift upward and stop when they hit it. Sticky. Matted. Gum. Of course. At this point, self-sabotage is just routine—muscle memory. “Serves you right, dumbass.” I flinch at my own cruelty. It’s not a helpful voice. Not protective. Not parental. It’s the voice of someone who’s done talking herself out of this. Someone who’s done repeating the same things to herself. There’s no mercy in it. I yank my hand away, resisting the urge to rip the mess out. I make a mental note to cut it out later. “Doesn’t matter. There’s nothing left to ruin.” Not like it’ll hurt my beauty—or lack thereof. Not like I’m damaging anything valuable. Not like I’m damaging anything beautiful. Not like there’s beauty to preserve. No one’s going to see me.


I was too mad at myself to go back to sleep.

Instead, I reach for my phone—it’s close enough to being asleep. My brain didn’t argue with it. It never argues with escape. It’s designed for it. Thumb scrolling before I even gave the word. The screen lights up. My pupils contract. And just like that—gone.