I sit with my legs drawn up, staring out the window. The white walls feel closer today, suffocating.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been here (I can’t remember a lot).

I stand up, unfolding forever. I walk across the space between me and the bed and the window. The walls stretch out and double the journey. Triple it. I fight against it and suddenly slam against the window pane. The walls behind me snap back, closer than they ever have been.

I can’t find the latch.

I can’t find the latch.

The wind takes my breath away, threatening to suck me out and throw me around like the tops of the trees. The sky is grey; impossibly grey. It hovers over everything like a thick blanket. I can’t breathe. The walls keep getting tighter and tighter.

I don’t know what I’m fighting. The glass cuts deeper, scraping bone, scraping the very essence of me. I gasp at the sensation, filling my body that has laid empty for so long (so long).

“How long have you known me?” I yell into the grey. The wind rips the words out of my throat.

“What is there to know?” it returns, a mangled echo.

The sky is impossibly grey.

“Don’t fall too far.”