Friday

If I were your skin this Friday morning, I’d tell you the light is shy today, brushing against rooftops like a memory half-remembered. The golden glow isn't loud, it's hesitant, like it too knows the weight of longing. The world outside stretches slowly, reluctant to wake fully, wrapped in layers of cloud and unresolved dreams. I smell the promise of coffee, but it’s mingled with something old—perhaps dust stirred by dawn, or the scent of pages left open too long. The dew isn’t just fresh—it carries a certain ache, like earth exhaling after a heavy night. Flowers do sigh, but not all are fragrant. Some bloom only to wilt unnoticed. And the robins, those tiny red birds, their song was supposed to be comfort, wasn’t it? But even they seemed to hum a tune half-heartedly today. A melody structured like a beautiful lie. Almost like they, too, were trying to drown out the pulse of a world too loud, too broken in some places. The broken window, how well it knows you. It lets in not just the air but your thoughts, the ones you try to sweep under the door each day. It whispers your helplessness back at you in the chill that kisses your skin before you rise. And still, you don’t fix it. Not because you can’t, but beca