Bleeding Grey.

Bleeding Grey



Flinching as intrusive light slipped through the parted curtain, pressing against closed eyelids like an unwanted guest.

Why hadn’t the curtain been shut properly? Regret and frustration washed over her.

Turning over, eyes still closed, she willed herself back to sleep.

Giving in, her hand reached under the pillow for her phone. 15:42. Another wasted day.

Thursday. Again. This time, the 23rd. Opening the calendar, she counted silently the days she had been in bed. A toxic little game she liked to play with herself. A groan escaped, her phone smacking against the duvet as she forced herself upright.

Stuck in this vicious cycle for weeks—lying in bed, wasting away, watching night bleed into night, Netflix auto-playing in the background, life reduced to an endless loop that couldn't even be classed as passing.

A hollow pit, built on the crumbling foundation of her fractured mind.

The room was dimly lit by a stubborn ray of sunlight, its intrusion still unwelcome.

The space—a mess—dirty clothes scattered across the floor, three days’ worth of dishes cluttering the dresser, curtains and windows cracked halfway open, like unfinished thoughts refusing to come together.

The instinct to care.

It used to be there.

With a heavy sigh, she dragged herself to the bathroom at a pace even a sloth would approve of.

It had been a while since she looked in the mirror. When she finally met her reflection, surprise followed—

Dark circles. Sunken cheeks. A longer face. Turning sideways felt like disappearing. She recognised herself but didn’t at the same time.

She pulled the band from messy hair, retying it into a slightly more respectable one. She looked at herself again, then back at her room, flinching against the physical representation of her mental health.

Grabbing the phone again she noted, no notifications. As usual.

The twinge of something—maybe disappointment, maybe… something else, something more vulnerable to name? Was it irrational to expect people to check in when no effort was made to reach out?

Still... wouldn’t it be nice?

Wouldn’t it be nice to reach out?

It used to happen. It used to be important.

She suddenly thought about lying back down, but making the bed instead felt more productive sitting in the middle, stretching out, the only bit of exercise left in her these days. Simple. No energy at all.

Deep down, the urge to do something—anything—fought to break through. Clean? Eat? Read? Anything to stop her mind from falling apart. Tomorrow... definitely tomorrow.

if anyone were to ask, she would say it was fine. In all honesty though- Everything felt pointless. More importantly, it felt impossible—the thought of movement, of actively participating in her own life, was beyond overwhelming, exhausting to even contemplate.

Truly the world seemed a little more void of colour every day.

The blank screen appeared again. 16:06.

Once, time had been a construct, something to bend where needed. Almost fun—back then—to think about how to waste it. She never flinched from the ticking of the clock.

Now, time was terrifying. Dragging slowly, physically painful, or rushing forward, feeling like soon it would slip away completely.

Either way, time felt relentless. Worst of all, terrifyingly unfulfilled.

The urge to disappear into the familiar weight of nothingness returned, as she fell backward onto her pillows, overwhelming, crushing, yet comforting in a way that filled her with unease.

The familiar phrase “Stop the world, I want to get off” echoed in her mind. Wouldn’t it be nice to pause? Escape for a while. Exist somewhere else. Anywhere else. Away from the heaviness that had settled.

Her hand loosened its grip on the phone. What was the point in checking again? Numbness had become a reliable companion now. Sleep called; exhaustion settled in suddenly. Was it sudden? It felt sudden, but it was always there.

Glancing around the room again. The weight of existence pressing against her chest, suffocating. Tomorrow, she would try again.

Rolling over—no parted curtain. No ray of sunshine.

Tomorrow came and went.

Unsure of how many days she had lost. She ran a warm hand over her face, irritated by this new normal.

Grabbing the phone, she sighed, placing it down again, a small act of defiance against the loop.

That was enough.

Kicking off the covers, she swept through the room, picking up scattered items in view, clothes shoved into the laundry, dog toys into their basket, chocolate wrappers into the bin.

A small smile appeared, at the thought of this newfound energy, unsure who or what she was rebelling against, but it felt good. It had been a while.

It wasn’t real energy, though. It wasn’t normal—it was a sudden surge, almost like she was running on pure adrenaline, just enough to make her move, just enough to give the illusion of control. It wasn’t the relief of purpose; it was something more chaotic, like a switch had been flipped, and now everything felt frantic, rushed.

It wouldn't last long, she knew that for certain, she knew that from experience, a few hours a few minutes rarely anymore did it last days. And that knowledge made her desperate; not wanting to lose the surge before the dust settled and the heaviness bled into her lungs again.

With the room looking a little more put together, she paused—feeling almost dizzy from the burst of activity. She steadied herself, unsure if it was the change in movement or just the sharp contrast to how she'd felt moments before that was making her head spin.

The frantic energy evaporated quickly, leaving her feeling hollow again, though the room around her was a little less messy. She knew the familiar emptiness would settle back in, as it always did. But right now, it was gone. She moved toward the kitchen, almost robotically, feeling the residual hum of the energy fading.

The kitchen—rarely visited these days. Filling the water bottle, the sound of the faucet loud and intrusive. Glancing through the window, wondering, had it been this dark before? Or was the world still dimming? Was it her eyes adjusting, or had the light simply faded that much?

Opening the front door, she stepped outside. It was unseasonably warm for October. The warm wind lifted, brushing against her skin and spilling leaves across her slipper-clad feet. A sudden urge to look up made her breath catch. She stepped back in surprise, not having expected the night to look like this. Above her, the sky was a velvet canvas, the only light coming from the full moon, glowing white and sharp, casting a pure, silvery glow on everything below. The stars, distant and quiet, dotted the sky, their light honest and unwavering, silent witnesses to the to the world beneath them. No streetlights. No city glow. Just the dark, punctuated by these bright, otherworldly points of light. Uncertainty lingered. But even in real darkness, there was light.

 Maybe that was something.

Wasn’t that something?

Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be better. Maybe the world would continue to bleed gray. Maybe her feet would remain stuck in the mire of indecision, like quicksand. The more she struggled, the faster it consumed everything about her. But there was something, small and almost indescribable, refusing to slip completely away. There was something, small and indescribable, refusing to slip completely away.

 As she stood, illuminated in the darkness, she couldn’t help but wonder if that little something was hope—and if hope could be found in the dark sky, infinite and uncontrollable, maybe she could find the courage to reach for it.