You lie back without bothering to change, the day settling into your body as the mattress takes you in. For a while you just stare at the ceiling, trying to slow things enough to make sense of them. The room is quiet; your mind isn't. Thoughts move in loops that don't resolve, circling the same points. You go back over the conversation, the moment it turned, what you could have said instead, even knowing it changes nothing now. The more you replay it, the worse it sits. It's not just the mistake. It's how easily it happened, how natural it felt and how obvious it looks now. You shift, adjust, but it doesn't help. The discomfort isn't really physical; it sits deeper, just out of reach. You close your eyes, open them, close them again, hoping stillness will do what you can't. It doesn't, not at first. Time stretches. Every drift toward sleep snags on another thought and pulls you back up. You try to empty your head; it won't, holding onto the day as if letting go meant admitting something. Then, eventually, the resistance fades. Your body gives in where your mind wouldn't. The thoughts thin, then blur, and without noticing when, you're under. Not peaceful. But enough. [[Next Day|Wake up to the next day]]