"𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘚𝘌𝘌𝘔 𝘜𝘗𝘚𝘌𝘛. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦? 𝘓𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 𝘚𝘐𝘗."

6:38pm

The house was empty when she arrived. A hollow thing, echoing the way she imagined a home should feel. Y/n stepped inside, her feet landing too lightly on the old wooden floor, her weight distributed in ways that made her movements seem marionette-like, unnatural. She swayed slightly, correcting herself with an awkward shift of her shoulders.

"Home, sweet home." she murmured to no one.

Jasper, Nevada, was quiet—too quiet. The desert wind hummed outside, rattling the glass in the windows, but inside, there was only dust and stillness. Y/n turned her head to scan the dimly lit hallway, but the motion was loose, disjointed. A slow, deliberate hand lifted to cup her chin, supporting the weight of her own head as she righted it.

"Curious glance," she whispered, tilting her head in mock interest.

The living room was sparsely furnished. A couch sagged under years of neglect. A coffee table, scratched and stained, sat in the center of the room. The kitchen beyond it smelled of stale air and old wood. She dragged her fingers along the countertop, feeling the grit of dust settle beneath her nails.

"Soft exhale."

Her voice barely carried, lost in the cavernous emptiness of the house. She wasn't sure why she spoke at all. Habit, maybe. Imitation. If she said the words, it made the actions feel real, didn't it?

She found a mirror in the hallway. The glass was old, slightly warped, but it did its job well enough. Y/n peered into it, adjusting the loose strands of hair that framed her uneven features. Her eyes were wide, but not in surprise. Just... open. Watching. Trying.

The corner of her mouth twitched, but the expression never reached her eyes.

Somewhere outside, a car rolled past on the empty road. The noise broke the silence for just a moment before fading again. Y/n listened. She wondered what the people here would think of her. Would they recognize the wrongness in her movements? Would they stare?

She lifted a hand to her throat, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Teehehe.." she tried.

But this time, she actually laughed.

The sound bounced off the walls, too sharp, too sudden. She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling it. For a brief moment, something stirred in her chest—something distant, almost foreign.

She wasn't sure if it was amusement or something else entirely.

Either way, she was home now.

The floorboards groaned under Y/n's weight as she shuffled through the dimly lit hallway. She moved carefully, calculating each step, but her body refused to cooperate the way she wanted it to. Her limbs felt disjointed, her balance precarious. Her feet naturally turned inward, and every few steps, she had to pause and readjust.

Her head tilted—too far.

She barely caught herself in time, fingers snapping up to press against her jaw and support the weight of her own head. A sharp ache ran down her spine, a dull reminder that her body did not function like others'. She sighed.

"Unstable posture..." she muttered.

The words were mechanical, detached. A note to herself, perhaps. A reminder of what needed correction.

7:12pm

The kitchen was dark, the only light coming from a cracked window where dust hung thick in the air. The scent of old wood and neglect filled her nose as she reached for the cabinet handle. Her grip was too weak—her fingers slipped once, twice—before she finally pried it open.

She exhaled.

"Frustrated sigh," she narrated, as if acknowledging the emotion would make it feel more real.

Y/n's gaze flickered downward, landing on her own reflection in the oven door. Her head was still resting in her palm, her fingers curled loosely under her chin like a broken doll propped up to sit straight. Her eyes, wide and staring, examined the image before her.

"..."

She turned away. Her muscles ached from standing too long, and a dull throbbing crawled up the back of her skull. Too much stimulation. Too many sensations at once. The weight of the air, the creaking of the house, the feeling of her own skin—it was all pressing down on her.

She needed to sit. No—she needed pressure.

Dragging herself to the couch, she let herself fall onto it with an unsteady motion. Her body folded awkwardly, her head slipping again. She caught it just in time, her fingers wrapping around her own neck for support. The pressure helped. Just a little.

"Deep breath," she murmured.

She obeyed.

The house groaned again, settling into the silence. Outside, the desert wind howled softly, whispering through the cracks in the walls.

Y/n sat there, unmoving, her head still resting in her own grasp.

Maybe she would stay like this for a while.

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