Solitude.

'She slept with the door open every night. At one time, when she was more hopeful, she had thought: if Rey were to come back tonight, he would see right away that I was sleeping alone. That had been the logic at first, but now it wouldn't be truthful to say that she expected anything of the sort. It was habit, pure & simple, of the kind whose origin was vaguely recalled but which existed nonetheless, a constant & unchanging fact of life. Her door was open.'

Lost City Radio

by Daniel Alarcón

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I'm done with a major essay. It feels wonderful to read for pleasure again.