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The kitchen was empty. Evening light sinks in through the window, the sky a brilliant dying yellow, and orange, pink, red, slowly being taken over by the moon and the stars. The bedroom was also empty. You closed the open window, when you peeked in there was a slight breeze, wind blowing the curtains. The garage was empty and the guest rooms were empty, the backyard was empty and--

There was nobody home.

That's alright. It's fine, so fine. In the kitchen, a sticky note is stuck to the refrigerator. You didn't want to read it.

The kitchen was slightly dirty, mail scattered over the counter, smudges on the table. The dishes are drying next to the sink, and you should unload and put them away. Yeah. There's the clink of the dishes as porcelain is placed away. You count the dishes as you place them away. One. Two, three. Four. Five. The analog clock loudly ticks in the silence, building a dread that sinks in your bones.

You've been avoiding it. You've searched every corner of the house for somebody in order to force yourself to not read the note. You've searched the house for something. For a surprise, for a remembrance, for something more than normal, something more than the ordinary that cycles on every single day. The post it note sits there, inconspicuously stuck on the surface of the very nice refrigerator. You could see the warped reflection of yourself in the dull silver.

The black of the ink is pronounced against the bright yellow of the paper. It's written in handwriting you strive to have.

[We've gone out for dinner. You were sleeping, so we decided not to wake you up.]

You crumple the note in your hand, toss it away. You lick your lips, tap your fingers. Toss your head back. Run your hand through your hair. Straighten your clothes. Try to keep yourself occupied. Yeah, you have to do your laundry.

You go do that.

The work is monotonous, familiar. Just as if it was any other day. And it basically was. The day wasn't even particularly special. You were making a big deal out of nothing. Your socks pad over the floor, silently. The basket of clothes in your hands are warm from the dryer, and you sit down on the floor to fold them. It's methodical. Easy. You can do it in your sleep.

You place them all in your closet, and lay down on your floor. What shall you do next? The kitchen looked kinda dirty. Maybe you should eat dinner. But you weren't hungry. Clean the bathroom? You didn't really feel like doing that. You lick your lips again.

You don't feel like doing much of anything.

Nobody is home. Today doesn't matter. You should do something. You should really do something. What do you want to do?

You-- you kinda feel like crying?

Now that's weird. You know you want to cry, but you never want to cry. That's just-- Very atypical of you. Instantly, you go over the thoughts that you've had. What has made you sad? What's going on? Huh?

Sad is weird. You don't want to be sad. You can't even exactly say that you're sad. Does sad feel like this? Is this being sad? What happens if you just want to cry? You go over the feelings with a fine-toothed brush. The feelings are in a weird, dense clump that resists your fine-toothed brush. You still don't know if this is exactly 'sad'. Could just be another state of numbness, for all you know. Your eyes are teary, but not to the point where the world has blurred into vague colors.

Annoying. Feelings, ugh.

It feels weird. Feels like you're underwater and you're two seconds under the water holding your breath longer than you should, like your head is getting woozy and your chest is getting uncomfortably tight and you can acutely feel the empty space around you and you want something warm and cozy, and maybe another person for skin contact but you immediately automatically reject that thought because, ew, people.

Ah, that's it. You've been circling around the 'sadness' that's a weird clump in your chest and you've found the culprit. You frown at yourself. You're so weird. You're getting emotional and sad and weird over something like that? They could come back and then remember. You don't need to be 'sad' over something like that. And even if they do forget it, it doesn't matter. It's so far down on your priority list it's a wonder you're even feeling 'sad' about it.

So the cause of the 'sad' is just you being stupid. Sometimes you really don't get 'emotions' and 'feeling'. So weird.

Your phone dings and vibrates in your pocket. You lift your head. Eagerly, you fish your phone out of your pocket, looking at the message that's been sent to you. Messages are fun. Talking to people who you like is fun. It's all very nice.

You like talking to people who you've given a little piece of your heart to.

[Hey! W and I are gonna stay at X's house.

We'll be back in a few days!]

You:

[Okay. Also, you and W met X while eating? :0]

[Yea! XD]

You:

[XD]

Turns out that you don't like being alone.

You open the refrigerator door. The door gleams with how you've been almost manically cleaning. The rooms have been dusted, washed, vacumed. It's night now, and you're still going.

In the frig, from where you've wiped down all the nasty substances that were growing on the plastic, laid a white box. You grab it, and bring it to the table, nudging the door close with your foot. A fork, polished, sits on the counter. Innocently.

You open the box, and lick your lips again. There's a slight taste of blood. Metallic. Salty. It almost tasted thin. There was cake inside the box. It was generic. With rainbow sprinkles around the frosting on the top.

You eat your birthday cake in the darkness of the kitchen. You had bought it, and it turns out that your friends hadn't seen it. Your voice trembles as you sing happy birthday to yourself and you have to clear your throat. Your voice sounds raw, and the cake tastes like your tears.

You are not sad. It does not matter.

You welcome back your friends with an extremely clean house after the two days that they've spent at X's house. They talk about celebrating X's birthday. They say how weird it was that X didn't invite you to the party. You smile and shrug helplessly. You change the topic to teasing them about the nasty things you've found during your clean up.

X is your twin. You have the same birthday.

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