Disorientation

The room holds its breath. Light slants wrong— from a window you don't remember, in a color that has no name in your waking vocabulary.

You reach for the shape of morning, but it's Tuesday's light, or the light of someone else's morning, borrowed from a dream you're already forgetting.

The walls are patient. They've seen this before— the moment between sleeping and knowing, when even your own hands seem like visitors.

Outside, the world continues its loud certainty. You lie still and listen to the house settle into its ordinary truth, waiting to remember which life this is.