10 a.m.

We lie awake in bed and stare at the light the curtains let through.

We lie awake in bed and listen to the distant groaning of approaching snowplows, and let the knowledge sink in that life is continuing for others out there.

We lie awake in bed and try to ignore the sting of shame in our chests, and the familiar voices echoing that we're lazy and that we're going to lose our jobs.

We lie awake in bed and check our work emails on our phones, to make us feel like we're working.

We lie awake in bed and wonder. We lie awake in bed and think about what would happen if a tsunami washed out California, or if another earthquake hit.

We lie awake in bed and feel the burn of the rough pillowcase against sensitive skin.

We lie awake in bed and think that we should get out of bed to drink some water, or eat something to start our metabolisms.

We lie awake in bed and tell ourselves that we're going to get up in five minutes-- we get five minutes more, we say. We lie awake in bed and watch the time tick by on the clock, and we recognize that the world is happening around us. We lie awake in bed and listen to people join work meetings and answer phone calls, and we picture people driving and grocery shopping and doing other things that grown adults should be doing.

 We lie awake in bed and look at our sleep-tracking apps-- surely, if we're still in bed now, we must have, at the very least, achieved a good night's sleep. We lie awake in bed and frown when shown the fact that no, we only managed five hours of sleep, and the tiredness that drags us down is because that has been the case for countless nights in a row.

We lie awake in bed and picture saints and ghosts flying around us, whispering wisdom into our ears that we are never able to understand.

We lie awake in bed and try to not think about the tasks that await us when we finally do get out of bed, the number exhausting just to think about-- brushing our hair, washing our face, putting on sunscreen, getting dressed, making breakfast-- all things that should be easy, just parts of life, hardly something even worth thinking about, nothing important at all-- and yet. We lie awake in bed and try to break down what we really have to do in order to move forward with the day-- do we really have to get dressed, why don't we just wear our lounge clothes to bed so we don't have to get dressed in the morning, and why don't we think about that at night?

We lie awake in bed and listen. We lie awake in bed and think. We lie awake in bed and wonder why we do this every morning.

We lie awake in bed and imagine warm arms wrapping around us. We lie awake in bed and think about the face that those arms would belong to-- if those arms were really there, we wouldn't turn to look at him, we'd know it was him, and we'd close our eyes and smile. We lie awake in bed and think of his voice, asking sweetly if we're going to get out of bed. We lie awake in bed and know that we wouldn't answer him, just bury our faces in the pillow. We lie awake in bed and know that he would chide us lightheartedly, before getting back to his feet and leaving the room, maybe to make us a cup of tea. We lie awake in bed and try to ignore the heavy ache of knowledge that tells us that those arms will never arrive, that voice will never whisper in our ears, and that cup of tea will never be brought in, cradled in soft hands with tattoos on the knuckles. (I can taste the phantom lemon and ginger on my tongue.)

We lie awake in bed and wait for something to happen to us, to force us to stand and tuck the blankets in nicely, forbidding us from crawling back in them again. We lie awake in bed and smell the faint stench of cigarette smoke left behind by the man who had come through yesterday, measuring the windows to replace them because 'we need a change'. We lie awake in bed and notice the lines in the digits on the clock as the numbers slowly change.

We lie awake in bed, all of us alone.

We lie awake in bed and promise ourselves that we won't get angry at people today: we will not be honest, we will not shout back 'who cares, it doesn't matter,' when we are scolded about spilled dish soap, we will not cry when accused of being lazy.

We lie awake in bed and feel the shame getting worse and worse, digging deeper and deeper into our souls. We lie awake in bed until, eventually, agonizingly, one of us takes a deep breath and sits up. (The room spins around me for a second when I stand. I do the mental math in my head: it is fifteen minutes to eleven, which means that it has been about thirteen hours since I last ate, twelve hours since I last drank, and eleven hours since I brushed my teeth. I slowly make my way out of the room, cursing the tasks that await me, and telling myself that tomorrow will be different, I'll wake up earlier, I'll arise earlier, I'll brew my own tea.)

We lie awake in bed and think about how this is life now, this is life as it is. We lie awake in bed and think about how we are together, and we are separate. (The tea never tastes right when I make it. The meetings in another room, muffled and far too enthusiastic, will carry on. Requests for tasks at work flood into my email, and will go unanswered for some time. But they will be answered, and the work will be done, and hairbrushes will comb through hair, and the water in the shower will turn hot, because this is life, and it goes on, with or without us.)