Open by holding something up and asking what to do with it. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

Is this the red mug? The one with the chip in the rim? Or was that the blue one? I keep mixing them up. Gil, tell me: trash or keep? It’s sticky. There’s a ring of coffee residue at the bottom that won’t scrub off.

I was thinking about those vending machines at three a.m. You know the ones—humming in the hospital lobby, glowing like alien gods. You drop a dollar in and get a warm soda that tastes like aluminum. Efficient, right? No conversation. No grief. Just transaction. That’s what I want right now. Pick. Toss. Move on. Don’t make it sentimental. It’s just ceramic. But it’s heavy. Did he drink from it every night? Stop looking at me like that. Just say yes or no. I’m standing here holding a chipped circle of clay while the rest of his life sits in boxes.

Fine. It’s trash. Sorry. I dropped it. It hit the bottom of the bin with a pathetic clink. Not even a crack. Just another stain for the garbage can to absorb.

God, this apartment smells like stale tobacco and old paper. I found a box of his tax returns from 2014. Why did I open that? I wasn’t going to open that. It’s just numbers. Boring, dry numbers. But now I’m holding a W-2 and thinking about how he used to complain about the withholding every April. Said the government was stealing his lunch money.

He was poor, but he was never broke. He just… disappeared into these little resentments. Like the chip in the mug. Small, sharp things you keep running your tongue over until it’s all you notice.

Do you think he kept this tax year on purpose? To annoy me? Or did he just forget to throw it out? I’m holding this paper and my hands are shaking. Not from grief. From the cold. The radiator in the corner is hissing. It’s been hissing since Tuesday. Or was it Monday? I can’t remember when I last checked the time. Just put it in the box. The "Keep" box. No, the "Trash" box. Whatever. Just take this paper from me.

He’s right. I’m hovering. I look like a nervous ghost in this oversized sweater. Keep it. Keep the damn W-2. It stays in the pile.

This box here is full of his socks. All of them. Holes in the heels, stained toes. I pulled one out and there was a dried patch of mustard on the cuff. He must have eaten a sandwich while driving. Just eating with one hand, steering with the other, mustard on the wool. It’s disgusting. It’s so mundane. Why did I think grief would be dramatic? It’s just mustard and holes.

I keep waiting for something to explode. A hidden camera, a secret account, a second family. Instead, it’s just lint and laundry detergent smells. Lavender. He hated lavender. Why did he buy lavender detergent? Did he think it would mask the tobacco? He couldn’t mask the tobacco. It soaked into the curtains. I haven’t opened those curtains yet. The fabric is stiff. Crusted.

Gil, do you think I should wash the sheets? Or just throw them? They’re yellowed. Not just dirty. Yellowed. Like old teeth. I’m staring at the pile of socks and I feel nauseous. Not sad. Nauseous. Like I swallowed something wrong.

Burn the socks. Yes. Good. Keep the sheets.

I’m walking to the laundromat now. The one on 4th. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. The sign says closed for maintenance. Stupid sign. I kicked the door. My toe hurts now. Real pain. Good. Anchors you.

I’m sitting on the curb. Watching a dog chase a pigeon. The dog is tiny. A terrier mix. Wet nose. It looks stupid. Happy, but stupid. I used to think Gil was stupid. Not smart. Stupid. In the way that counts.

My toe is throbbing. Like a heartbeat. Or a drum. He used to tap his fingers like that on the table. When he was reading. Or lying. I can’t remember which. The sock in my pocket is warm. From my hand. I didn’t burn it. I crumpled it. Put it back in the box. With the W-2.

Why did I kick the door? It was just a door. Glass and wood. I broke a nail. It’s bleeding. Look. Just a scratch. But it won’t stop. Why won’t it stop? I need a bandage. Do you have a bandage? I don’t have pockets. I’m wearing his sweater. It has no pockets. Just holes. Like the socks. God. I’m cold. The wind is biting. Through the wool. Through the skin. Through the bone.

Fine. You’re annoying. You’re always annoying. I’m walking east. My hand is sticky. Not just blood. Grease. From the vending machine I didn’t visit. Or did I? I remember the hum. The blue light.

The pharmacy is open. The guy behind the glass looks bored. He sees me bleeding and doesn’t move. I have to press the buzzer. It sounds like a mosquito in my ear. Buzz.

I’m holding the sock. It’s in my pocket. I can feel the dampness spreading. Or is that sweat? The sweater is too big. It slides off my shoulder. I pull it up. It smells like him. Like lavender and failure. I hate it. I need it.

The guy comes out. He hands me a bandage. Roll-on type. I didn’t ask for roll-on. I asked for adhesive. He didn’t ask what I wanted. Why does everyone just assume? I’m not a problem to be solved efficiently. I’m a person. With a toe and a heart and a box of socks.

He doesn’t look at me. He goes back inside. The glass fogs up. I’m standing there. The bandage is on. It’s tight. Too tight. My toe is numb. Good. Numb is easy. I’m going to go home. I’m going to wash the sheets. And I’m going to burn the socks. All of them. Even the one in my pocket. Let it burn. Let it turn to ash. Then I’ll sweep it up.

I’m not going to a bar. I’m going to the laundromat. It’s open. I unlocked it. Or I will. I’m kicking the door again. Harder this time. It gives. The lock is broken. Good.

Inside, the machines are humming. That same 3am hum. Vending machine noise. I put the sheets in. All of them. Yellowed, stiff, smelling of lavender and tobacco and him. I pour in the bleach. Too much. The water turns white. Cloudy.

I sit on the plastic chair. It’s cold. My toe throbs under the bandage. The roller ones always slip. I can feel the skin pinching.

Why did I buy the red mug? I can’t remember. Was it for coffee? Or tea? He didn’t drink tea. He drank beer. And black coffee. Always black.

I watch the sheets spin. They look like ghosts in the drum. White sheets flapping against the glass. Empty. Heavy. I want to open the door. Stop the cycle. But if I stop it now, the stains set. I have to let it run. All of it.

Gil. Why did you leave? I didn’t even hear the door close. You were just… gone. Like the socks. Like the tax returns.

I’m tired. My eyes are burning. The bleach fumes are making me dizzy. I should lean back. Just for a minute.

Don’t wake me up.

I’m leaning back. The chair cracks. Loud. Like a bone. I don’t care.

You’re right. It’s not forgiveness. It’s just… clean. White. Blinding. I can’t look at the yellow stains anymore. They look like eyes. Open, watching. Bleach closes eyes. Good.

My toe is throbbing again. The bandage slipped. Blood is seeping through the white gauze. Staining the plastic seat. A perfect little red bloom. Like a rose. Or a wound.

I’m not hyperventilating. I’m breathing. Slowly. In. Out. The machine hums. That 3am sound. The vending machine. I want a soda. Cold. Sweet. Aluminum. I drop a quarter in my pocket. It’s cold metal. Solid. Real.

I’m going to stay here until it stops. Until the cycle ends. Then I’ll take the sheets. They’ll be heavy. Wet. Clinging. I’ll drag them home. Hang them on the line. Let them drip on the sidewalk. Let the city absorb the lavender.

You’re still here? Good. Don’t leave. I’m scared of the silence. The machine is loud enough to cover it. For now.

Gross. Yeah. Okay.

I’m crawling over. The plastic is cold. Slipping on the blood makes it worse. Sticky. My fingers are numb from the cold and the panic. I peel the roll-on back. It sticks to the skin. Pain. Sharp, bright pain. Better than the dull ache in my chest.

I grab a fresh bandage from the dispenser. The plastic wrapper tears too hard. Ragged edges. I wrap it tight. Tighter. Until the circulation stops. Until the toe is just a lump of nothing. Good. Numb is good.

I look at you. Really look at you. You’re watching. Like a hawk. Or a judge. I hate that. I want to scream at you to stop watching. But I can’t. My throat is dry. Tastes like bleach. Like metal.

The machine clicks. The cycle ends. Silence rushes in. Heavy. Thick. The sheets are piled in the drum. White ghosts. Waiting.

I stand up. My knees pop. Loud. In the quiet. I look at the sheets. Then at the box of socks in the corner. Not burned. Just… there.

I’m going to take them home. I’m going to sit on the floor. I’m going to let it hurt. But first, I need to change the bandage again. It’s already soaking through. Why does it keep bleeding? Is it broken? Am I broken?

Fraying. Yeah. That works.

I’m lifting the sheets. They’re soaked. Heavy. Cold water seeps into my palms, soaking through my sleeves. I don’t care. The weight is good. It pulls my shoulders down. Keeps me grounded.

The adhesive bandage. Right. I find one in the pocket of his sweater. It’s damp. From the sweat. Or the blood. I peel the backing off. It sticks to my finger. Then I stick it to my toe. Hard. Tight. I press down. Harder. Until it bites.

I look at you. You’re standing by the door. Hand on the frame. Waiting. Your cat. I don’t know your cat’s name. I never asked. Why didn’t I ask? Because I was too busy looking at his socks.

I drag the bundle across the floor. It leaves a wet trail. Dark against the linoleum. I follow it. I don’t look back.

The door opens. Cold air hits my face. I step out. The sidewalk is empty. The streetlights are flickering. One, then the other. Going out.

I walk. Slowly. The sheets drag. Wet. Heavy. Leading the way.

Gil?

No. I won’t ask.

I just keep walking. Toward the apartment. Toward the floor. Toward the silence.

The gutter is black. Water rushes over the sheets. It’s cold. Freezing. It burns my legs. Good. I push them down. They sink into the muck. Dirty water rises up, smelling of old grease and rot.

I drop to my knees. My knees hit the wet concrete. Hard. No pain. Just shock.

The lights go out. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

Darkness. Thick. Heavy. It presses against my eyes.

I’m alone. Finally.

No Gil. No cat. No shift at six. No lavender detergent. No W-2s. No socks. Just the dark. And the sound of the water. Rushing. Fast. Indifferent.

I stay there. Kneeling in the gutter. Letting the dirty water soak into his sweater. Into my skin. Into my bones.

It’s cold. So cold. But it’s honest.

I close my eyes.

I don’t burn the socks. I can’t find them. They’re gone. Washed away. Or maybe I never had them. Maybe it was all just… water.

I sit in the dark. Waiting for the sun. Or for the pain to stop.

It doesn’t stop. It just changes shape. Like the water. Like the light. Like him.

I’m still here.

Still here.

I’m moving. My fingers are stiff claws. I can’t feel them. Just numb pressure.

The apartment door is unlocked. I didn’t lock it. Good.

Inside, it smells like bleach and wet wool. Stagnant. I kick the door shut. No sound. Just a thud in the silence.

I crawl to the radiator. The metal is cold. I press my chest against it. Wait.

Nothing. It’s dead. Just like him. Just like the streetlights.

I sit on the floor. Next to the box. I open it. The socks are there. Dry. Crumpled. The W-2 is underneath. Yellowed.

I pull out a pair of dry clothes from the drawer. Cotton. Thin. Holes in the elbows. I pull them on over my wet clothes. The fabric sticks to my skin. Cold. Heavy.

I don’t turn on the heat. I can’t afford it. Not now.

I sit in the dark. Waiting for the warmth that isn’t coming.

Gil is gone. The cat is fed. The shift starts in five hours.

I close my eyes.

The radiator hisses. Or maybe that’s just my blood.

I’m still here.

Still here.

I’m standing. My knees crack. Loud. Like dry twigs.

I find the valve. It’s rusted shut. I grip it. My fingers are blue. Numb. I pull. Nothing. I push. Nothing.

I grab the hammer from the toolbox. Heavy. Cold metal. I hit the pipe. Clang. The sound echoes in the empty hallway. Sharp. Violent.

I hit it again. Clang.

Downstairs, a voice yells. “Keep it down!” Muffled. Angry. Human.

I smile. A small, twisted thing. Someone is alive. Someone is angry. That’s something.

I turn the valve. It groans. Rust scrapes metal. Slowly. Inch by inch.

Then, a hiss. Steam. Hot air. It rushes out, warm and damp. The smell of iron and old water.

I wrap my hands around the radiator. The heat seeps into my bones. Slowly. Painfully.

I take off the wet clothes. They drip on the floor. A dark puddle. I don’t care.

I put on the dry clothes. Thin. Holes in the elbows. They scratch my skin.

I sit back down. Next to the box.

The radiator hums. Not a vending machine hum. A living hum.

Gil?

No answer. Just the heat.

I close my eyes.

I’m not freezing anymore.

I’m not dead.

I’m just cold. And angry. And alive.

That’s enough.

Clean sheets. They’re still wet. Dripping on the floor. I can’t find the dry ones. I pulled everything out of the drawer. It’s a mess. Colorful chaos. Blue, green, gray. All stained. All smelling of him.

I’m going to sleep on the floor. It’s closer to the radiator. Closer to the heat. The box is next to me. I can see the corner of the W-2 sticking out. Yellow. Crinkled.

I’m tired. So tired. My eyes are heavy. The radiator hisses. A steady, rhythmic sound. Like breathing.

I close my eyes.

The dark is gone. Replaced by the orange glow of the heat.

I’m not a ghost. I’m just cold. And hungry. But mostly cold.

I pull the wet sheets over me. They’re ice cold. Shivering. Hard. But it keeps me warm. Or maybe it’s just the fever.

Gil?

No answer. Just the hiss.

I’m sleeping.

Don’t wake me up.

Not yet.

Let the socks stay in the box. Let the blood dry on the bandage. Let the apartment rot.

I’m just resting.

Just resting.

I’m shaking. Violent tremors. My teeth are chattering so hard I think they’ll crack.

I pull the wet sheets off. They peel away like skin. Sticky. Cold. I leave them in a heap on the floor. Let them mold. Let them rot.

I grab the box of socks. All of them. The holes. The mustard stains. The lavender scent long gone, replaced by dust and decay. I shove them into my sweater. Around my neck. On my chest. Over my heart.

They’re dry. Mostly. A little damp from the humidity. But warm. Trapped heat.

I curl up on the carpet. Hard wood beneath the thin layer. It hurts. Good. Pain is real.

The radiator hisses. Orange glow. Shadows dance on the ceiling.

I close my eyes. Not to sleep. To stop seeing the dark.

My toe throbs. The bandage is tight. Blood seeps. Warm. Red.

I don’t care.

I’m alive.

Shaking.

Alive.

That’s enough.

For now.

I’m taking them off my neck. Choking is worse than cold. I can breathe.

The socks go on my feet. Two pairs. Thick wool. Stiff with dried mud and old soap. They don’t fit right. One’s too big. One’s too small. It doesn’t matter. The wool is dry.

I’m standing up. Legs like jelly. I stumble. Hit the wall. Hard. The paint chips. White flakes on the floor. Like bone dust.

The carpet. Yeah. The blood. I step over it. Don’t look down. If I look down, I’ll see the red spreading. Like a map. To where? Nowhere. Just the floor.

I find a towel. In the bathroom. Hanging on the rack. Blue. Faded. It smells like mildew. Good. Honest.

I wrap it around my shoulders. It’s rough. Scratchy. Better than the wet sheets. Better than the socks on my neck.

I’m not shivering anymore. Just numb.

I look at the door. It’s closed. You’re gone. Or you’re still there. Hidden. Watching. I don’t know. I can’t see you.

I’m tired. So tired.

I walk to the bed. The mattress is sagging. Lumpy. I sit on the edge. It groans. Like the radiator.

I pull the dry blanket up. It’s thin. Pilled. But it’s dry.

I close my eyes.

No more ghosts. No more taxes. No more lavender.

Just the towel. The socks. The dark.

I’m sleeping.

Don’t wake me.

It’s warm. Actually warm. The radiator kicks off with a final, metallic sigh, then restarts. A low, steady thrum. Like a cat purring. Or a heart.

I’m asleep. Or close enough. The towel is bunched under my chin. The mismatched socks are digging into my ankles. It’s uncomfortable. Perfect.

No vending machines. No 3am hums. No blue lights. Just the orange glow of the heater and the smell of old paint and mildew.

I dream of a sock. A single, holey sock floating in white water. It doesn’t sink. It just floats. Drifting. Away.

I reach for it. My hand is numb. The bandage on my toe is thick and stiff. I can’t feel my fingers.

But I’m breathing. In. Out.

The sun will hit the floor eventually. I know it will. It always does.

I’ll complain about the cold then. About the dust. About the smell.

I’ll complain because I’m here.

Because I’m Nell.

And I’m alive.

So shut up. And let me sleep.

I’m not sleeping. I’m awake.

The sun isn’t hitting the floor. It’s still dark. 3am. The vending machine hum is back. In my head. Or in the walls.

I’m cold. Really cold. The radiator kicked off. The metal is cooling down. Click. Click. Hiss.

I’m shivering again. Under the towel. With the socks.

I’m going to get up. I’m going to find the dryer. If it works. If there’s power.

I’m going to dry the towels. And the socks. And maybe myself.

I’m not calling you. I’m not texting. I’m just… here.

Complaining about the cold.

Because I’m alive.

And I’m tired.

So tired.

But I’m up.

I’m up.

The fridge is humming. Of course it’s humming. It’s loud. Annoying. I yell at it. “Shut up.” It doesn’t.

Breaker box. Yeah. Right. I found it behind a stack of old magazines. Boxers and tax forms from 1998. I open it.

Lights flicker. Good.

I flip the main switch. Click.

Darkness. Total.

Then, a buzz. A hum. The fridge stops. The radiator hisses. The lights in the hall buzz back on. Dim. Yellow.

It works. Just the apartment. The whole building isn’t out. Just me.

I look at the dryer. It’s in the closet. In the dark. I can’t see it. I reach in. Touch the metal. Cold. I plug it in. The cord is frayed. I tape it with duct tape. From his toolbox.

I throw the socks in. The towel too. Not the wet sheets. Those stay. Let them rot.

I press start. Clunk. The drum turns. Slowly. Grinding.

I stand in front of it. Waiting.

It’s warm. A little.

I close my eyes.

I’m not complaining yet. But I will be. Soon.

I’m alive.

Just alive.