invisible

November 7, 2025

. . . And the overhead lights acquiesce, fluttering on with the angry electric skip of being uninvited to the party, yet surged on in the middle of the night. The room, rosy, hidden with little pink spotlights and aluminum streamers, puffs up and floats in the tiniest way. I see it from within my half-dream and say nothing. I do not wake up. In another moment the fridge will whine on the other side of the basement, and its one-note hum will creep into earshot; over here, perched atop the floral couch tucked away into the corner, the cold remainder of the note meets the wall and pushes it to dance mid-air —

The world’s smallest whirlwind. I feel it softly against my face. I do not wake up.

In an hour, the house will shut down with the smell of cleaning solution and vomit. The rest of the party will hit the very top and retreat into early morning rest, freight trains and tunnels. I will be gone by then. The storm will have entered through the back door, and behind turned heads, the fire of exploding stars will fill the living room. In the middle of a white ball of light I will dissolve into nothing.

From within my half-dream, I will be the only one to see the damage. They will not leave a trace of proof of life. I will not wake up.

And with eyes closed, I listen to them slowly walk out of the room, one by one, chattering— to themselves, to the sky, as their voices trail away into the house. This silence weighs heavily. I know it will end soon. A chill has settled into the valley and I am shivering on leftovers somewhere, far removed from whatever becomes of the house.

Plastic streamers dissolve on the side of my face. I don’t know if you’re talking to me, but I know it will end soon.

I see it from within my half-dream and say nothing. I do not wake up.