My 6 o’clock alarm is a hammer cracking my head; the sky is grey and foggy. I used to love those days, the cold breath, the hot coffee rambling down my freezing throat. People tend to be quiet and slow on grey days. Now, they are a reminder of the greyness of our loss: the deceptive, malicious colour of no action.

My body is aching, drowning in my bed. It is going to swallow me into its springs. My heart shedding the tears my eyes are too dry to shed. My lungs holding back what might be the sharpest scream. The house is now empty. I still haven’t purchased any furniture. Why do, when it is only me?

Me, who spend 15 hours working and the rest sleeping. Every friend in town left. Who is coming to visit?

I still find joy in coffee. It used to be a ritual, now it is merely a necessity for the long days. Not long ago, we talked about it. The scenario of normalization, of return, of forced decisions; is it even a decision when it is the only one you have? My phone rings, it’s mom. She never calls this early, it is another call of grief and cries.

Those of us lucky enough to stay had to say goodbyes to family and friends. The world smells like lies and tastes like deception.