—Those who sleep first wake last, and those who wake first never sleep again.
I remember leaving.
I am certain of it.
The bag by my door is still packed the way I left it, the zip half-closed, a corner of my blouse caught in its teeth. The same blouse I wore three days ago or yesterday. I cannot tell which sits more firmly in my mind.
I stand in the middle of the room for a long time, staring at it.
I had gone out.
I know I did.
But nothing here reflects that.
The air feels undisturbed, the bed still holding the faint impression of my body, the water in the cup by the window untouched.
Even the dust near the door lies flat and unscattered.
I press my fingers against my temples and let out a slow breath.
Perhaps I had only meant to leave.
Perhaps I had changed my mind.
That happens.
I move on.
The house feels rather different lately.
Not in an obvious manner, though, just a gut feeling.
I find myself turning corners before I realize I am walking. My feet carry me down narrow paths. I reach for door handles without thinking.
It was evening, and I stepped into the back room, my reasons for that long forgotten.
The air is cooler there, thick with the faint scent of soap. The curtains are drawn tight, shutting out the last of the daylight.
"Have I been here before?"
I don't remember, but my body does.
For a moment, I stand there, trying to place why it feels familiar.
A dull weight settles behind my eyes.
I exhale.
Maybe I'm just tired.
That's all.
I turn away before the feeling can deepen and make my way back down the narrow hall, my steps slower now.
"I should rest," I mutter to myself.
Just for a little while.
A Few Hours Later
I open my eyes.
My vision is blurry at first, the shapes in the room melting into one another until they slowly settle back into place.
It is darker now.
The lights are thinner.
For a moment, I lie still, trying to gather myself, trying to remember when I closed my eyes.
I must have drifted off again.
Then I feel a presence.
A close one. Close enough that my chest tightens.
I turn my head swiftly.
Nia is lying a short distance away, curled on her side.
Closer than she should be.
She is not asleep.
Her hands are tucked close to her chest, her face focused on mine, watching me quietly.
It is as if she has been waiting. For how long, I do not know.
There is something about the stillness of her body that frightens me.
"Nia?" My voice comes out softly.
"You're awake," she says. There is no surprise in it. No relief. Just certainty.
I push myself up slowly, my body heavy like I have not just rested, but worked. My shoulders ache, and my arms feel strained. Then I swing my legs off the bed and sit up, the floor cool beneath my feet.
"Did I fall asleep?" I ask.
She tilts her head slightly.
Then she blinks once, slowly, and pushes herself up into a sitting position.
"You were tired."
I frown faintly. "I don't remember lying down."
She does not answer immediately.
Her eyes stay on me.
"Mama said you needed rest."
I look down at myself.
The clothes I am wearing…
They are not the ones I had on before.
My fingers move over the fabric, slow and uncertain.
I do not remember changing.
A faint metallic taste sits at the back of my tongue.
I swallow hard.
But it does not go away.
"I didn't…" I start.
But the thought slips before I can finish it.
Nia's eyes do not leave my face.
"You were not feeling well," she says.
I search my memory.
But there is nothing.
Just a blank space where something should have been.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding and nod slowly.
"Right," I say quietly.
That makes sense.
It has to.
I sit back down, smoothing my hands over my knees, grounding myself in the motion.
Across from me, Nia does not move. She does not say anything else.
She just watches, like she is waiting for me to forget something again.
After a while, she shifts, lying down beside the bed again and turning slightly away, but not fully.
Not enough to stop watching.
Her breathing settles into a slow and steady rhythm.
She has been watching me more closely.
It is not obvious. Not something anyone else would notice. But I do.
Even now, I can feel it.
The way her attention lingers longer than it should.
The way she studies me, like she is waiting for something.
Earlier that day, we sat together in the living room, her mother moving in and out of the room, the soft shuffle of her feet marking time.
Nia's gaze stayed on me.
Not constant.
Just enough.
She tilted her head sometimes, slightly, as if listening for something beneath what I said.
Once, I opened my mouth to ask her a question.
"You're going to ask if I've eaten," she said.
I paused.
Then smiled. "Have you?"
She did not smile back.
"Not yet."
There was something in the way she said it that made me hesitate.
I could not place why.
I told myself I was imagining things.
Still, the feeling lingered.
Now, in the dim room, I remain where I am, staring at the space between us.
For some reason, I cannot bring myself to close my eyes again.
After a while, I tell myself there is nothing to worry about.
People forget things.
It happens.
Especially when they are tired.
Especially when they have been working too much.
I have been working.
The thought settles in firmly.
Across from me, Nia does not move.
Even with her eyes closed, it does not feel like she is asleep.
And the silence stretches on, unbroken.
—The mother is not always she that beareth, but she that taketh.