What was I doing in here?

You realize you don’t remember how you got to this moment, like you’ve been asleep while still moving through the day.

Not fully asleep.
Not fully aware.

Just… resuming.

Somewhere outside, a car door closes.

The sound arrives muffled, like it traveled through water to reach you.

Your body is upright.

You don’t remember choosing this position.

Your body seems confident about it anyway.

Breathing is happening.
so that’s good…

Your chest rises and falls with a slight resistance, like the air is thicker than it should be.
Your mouth tastes stale, like sleep lingered too long.

Awareness settles into sensation.

Weight presses down through your feet.
Gravity pulls at your hips.
There’s a dull ache between your shoulders you’ve stopped questioning.

Signals surface without labels.

Hunger, faint but persistent.
Dryness at the back of your throat.
A low hum of tension under your skin.

Your right knee pulses once.

An old injury you never followed up on.
It settles again, like it just wanted to be acknowledged.

None of it feels urgent.
All of it feels familiar.

Like this has been running long before you noticed.

You don’t move right away.

Your body shifts its weight, then shifts it back.
Not impatient.
Just checking.

That’s new.

Usually you’re already halfway into the next thing by now.

You roll your shoulders once.

There’s a pull on the right side.
Nothing sharp.
Nothing alarming.

Just… there.

You roll them again, slower.

The pull answers back.

Like an old rubber band that doesn’t stretch evenly anymore.

You bend slightly, more out of curiosity than intention.

Your lower back responds with a quiet protest.

Not pain.
Not a warning.

A reminder.

A limit you’ve learned to move around.

You straighten again.
Slower this time.