It is all quiet now
I just finished eating dinner while rewatching The Office for I don’t even know how many times. I was laughing, and it was bright and kind of high-pitched. I know my mom hates my laughter—she always said it was scary and too much for her. But I always laugh like that. I’ve never been able to change it. Sometimes I wish I could laugh with more restraint, but I’ve never succeeded, so I just let the thought go.
After I put the dishes in the sink and was ready to walk away, I suddenly remembered I hadn’t taken my Accutane again. "Damn it, I can’t believe I forgot it again," I said out loud. It’s become the norm, me talking to the air. I don’t really think in my head anymore. Since I’ve been alone in the house, I’ve started saying things out loud. At first it was intimidating, but after a while, I got used to it. The kitchen was full of warmth, a good space for feeling less lonely. The light above was warm and beautiful.
As I popped open the pill from the Accutane tablet, suddenly every sound felt loud—extremely loud. "Ugh," I groaned into the air. "Why is it always so hard to get this thing out?" Even though I complained, I opened it with calm and poise. I’m used to how difficult it is now.
The sound of tearing the tablet open felt sharper than usual, and the pill popping out struck my ears like glass. I never imagined a pill could make so much noise. My heart skipped a beat. And then I started crying.
I don’t even know why. But it felt like a little lift.
I bent down to pick up the pill that had rolled onto the floor, inspecting it for dust. "Five-second rule!" I shouted a little and smiled, wiping the tears from the corner of my eyes. I’m so silly, I thought, this time softly to myself. Holding the pill between my index finger and thumb, I didn’t see any dirt. I stood up, took a sip of water, and swallowed it.
I remembered I’d spent too long in bed, gazing into my phone screen as if something would appear. Something meaningful. Something just for me. I finally had the courage to get up and do something—like watching a sitcom I’ve probably watched nine times in my life. I love how goofy Michael is. Everyone in the show never changes. Whenever I open it, they’re always there. Frozen in the frame. Forever.
It was cloudy today. I didn’t step outside, but I could feel how quiet and gloomy everything was.
Indeed, it is all quiet now.
