control is just smoke and mirrors

The mantras only work until the shadow shows up with receipts.

The apartment felt thick and heavy, silence draping every corner like a suffocating blanket. It wasn’t just quiet—it was the kind of silence that dares you to shatter it, just to prove you’re still breathing.

Each inhale felt foreign, dragging through the stale air like it didn’t belong in my lungs. It clung to me, sticky and unwelcome, like humidity that wouldn’t let go.

Movement felt impossible, and yet, the stillness demanded it.

Do something. Anything.

But I stayed curled in the armchair, knees pulled tight, the blanket wound around me like armor that had seen better battles. If I stayed like this—just one more second—I could trick myself into believing I wasn’t unraveling.

That things were fine. Or close enough to fake.

Sandalwood drifted faintly through the room, but it didn’t do what it was supposed to. No calm. No peace. Just stale memories trapped in the scent, the kind that linger like regrets you thought you’d outgrown.

Burning it was pointless.

As if inhaling incense could s…