The days crawled by, each one slow and torturous, like a clock ticking backward. But they went by.
We were still alive, somehow. I clung to that tiny fact, like a thread fraying at the ends but just strong enough to keep me tethered to reality.
Mia and I filled the silence with a warped version of Twenty Questions. It wasn't a game anymore, not really. More like a desperate attempt to remind ourselves we were still human. I blamed the absurdity on the lack of food, the darkness, and the constant trauma.
She would ask things like, "What's your favorite color?"
And I would answer, "Blue." Not because it was true anymore, but because it used to be. Back when I had a favorite color. Back when things like colors mattered.
"What's yours?" I would then ask, trying to keep the rhythm going.
"Green," she would say, though her voice always sounded hollow, like she wasn't sure anymore, either.
