I woke to the sound of my alarm, and I buried my head in my pillow. My sheets felt warm and soft against my skin, and I closed my eyes for a few minutes more. Only a few. The weather felt cold and uninviting outside my window, and as soon as my feet touched the floor, I knew I would not return. I sighed deeply as I pulled an old, green sweatshirt over my head. Quickly twirling my hair into a bun, I sat down at my desk. It was cluttered; papers and books occupied the space around my computer, and it was difficult to concentrate. I sat there for a moment, allowing myself some time to think. Some time to breath.
It had been awhile; I was finally alone with my thoughts, something I’d been avoiding for weeks. Now, with the quietness of the morning, I began to analyze myself. Physically, I looked okay. Outward appearances are easy to disguise. My heart, however, resonated a different tune. I was exhausted. I felt as though I’d been used up, without my permission or consent. My heart ached with the pang of disappointment. I put my head on my desk and exhaled. I avoided moments like these for this very reason; the pain was still a reality.
I had a hundred different things I needed to accomplish for the day, and I finally laid my thoughts to rest. Grabbing my book bag, I looked in the mirror one last time. A second later I was out the door.