Monday mornings are always brutal, but this one felt like a glitch in the matrix, a punishment executed by a cold, indifferent hand. I had sabotaged the night before, letting the hours slip through my fingers, refusing to surrender to sleep, instead
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I was mid-flow, mid-thought, and keyboard-crushing pound when I thought I heard someone whisper. I stopped typing. Fingers frozen like spiders mid-air.
Silence.
The air felt like ice.
Maybe it was just the voices in my head painting another fiction.
