The In-Between

I woke up today without a name. At least, without one that felt like mine. It happens sometimes. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to remember who you are. But nothing clicks into place, so you get up anyway. You move through the motions of your body—feet on the floor, legs carrying you to the sink—but none of it feels right.

I washed my face, the water too cold, too sharp, and looked at the woman in the mirror. She was someone I recognized but couldn't quite place. Her hair was tangled from sleep, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, lips slightly chapped. She looked like she had a life, probably a normal one, but it wasn't mine.

I stared at her until she blinked, then walked out of the bathroom.

The coffee machine broke three days ago. I've been drinking tea ever since, pretending it's what I wanted. I don't think I've ever wanted tea, not really. But you do these things, don't you? You make these small adjustments when the world tilts in some imperceptible way. You live in the crack between what you need and what you have.

The kettle screamed, and I poured the water over the limp bag of leaves, watching it steep into something bitter.

I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for a memory of myself to return. Sometimes it does, usually in fragments—a moment from when I was seven, sitting in the back of my parents' car, the windows fogging up from the rain. Or when I was twenty-four, in the middle of a crowded bar, too loud and bright, but still, I laughed like I had something to laugh about.

Today, nothing came.

The phone rang, sharp and sudden. I answered it because that's what you do when things ring.

"Are you okay?" It was Sarah's voice. She called me every morning, like she had for years, checking in as if we hadn't been doing this for long enough to know how little it changed anything.

"I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else's mouth.

"Don't lie," she said, but there was a softness in it. She didn't push. She knew that sometimes all I could do was exist. She'd stopped asking the bigger questions a long time ago.

"I'm drinking tea," I told her, as if that explained everything.

There was a pause. "It's going to be okay, you know."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that there was a version of me out there—somewhere in the future or maybe the past—who was whole, who wasn't always slipping out of herself like an old sweater. But I'd learned not to expect too much from belief.

"I know," I said. We both knew I didn't.

After the call, I sat there, holding the teacup. It was still too hot to drink, so I just cradled it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. I wanted to pour it out, watch the water swirl down the drain, but I didn't move. It was easier to stay still, to let the day stretch ahead of me like an empty room I couldn't walk out of.

Outside, a dog barked. The sound was sharp, jarring, like it was calling me back to something, though I wasn't sure what.

I wondered how long it would take to remember my name today.