everything, nothing.

Everything was the same.

365 days later.

The broken bricks still lay on top of each other, the house still somewhat intact. Almost dead, but not quite. The overgrown grass leading up to the path still scratches. The blood stains my tan skin, the pain non-existential. Pain stops existing at a certain point. A rat scurried past the dusty wooden door. Ah, my little friend. Home was never home without him. I step into the darkness. My fingers slide over the dust, searching for a switch. I feel the stubby corners of the switch, the touch bringing back another time. The light floods the house, but it only makes it worse. The kettle never left the stove on the small kitchenette. I expect it to whistle, and I almost feel the warmth of Darjeeling on my lips. But warmth doesn’t exist either. Not when static doesn’t cover the cracked television. Not when the laundry isn’t whirring in the shattered machine. Not when quiet exists at the same time.

Nothing was the same.

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