When you ask how my day was— I stall. Because how do I explain that I don’t remember it? I remember breakfast. And now. Everything in between is a fog I walked through with my eyes open and my mind somewhere else. I function. That’s the word people like. But functioning feels like holding my breath for twelve hours straight and calling it normal. And then you ask. Just like that. How was your day? And suddenly I’m here again. In my body. In the moment. Not okay. Not healed. But awake.