the ceiling is too close. a blank page pressed against my face. the road whirs a thin, raging song, a sound that usually lulls, but now just cuts.

my blood feels too hot, too thick. it’s not her. it’s never her. it’s the other one - the friend, the one whose laugh is a little too sharp, whose opinions are a little too loud. i just don’t like her. it’s a pure, simple and ugly fact.

and tonight she had her. hours of it. i can see them, a picture i paint with spite. leaning in close at some cafe table, sharing secrets that are probably trivial, but feel, in this darkness, like a betrayal. her listening to that voice, absorbing that energy, giving her time — her precious, limited time.

the thought is a physical thing. a cold, greasy stone in my gut. it turns over, and i turn with it, punching the pillow that offers no solace. it’s so stupid, so petty but the anger is a live wire under my skin, buzzing, looking for a ground.

it’s not even about the words they exchanged. it’s about the space she occupied. the air she breathed that was meant for better things. for me. the echo of her presence that now lingers in my mind. egoism? totally. stupidity? absolutely. jealousy? kinda.

and so i lie here. the quiet of the house is a mockery. everyone is asleep, dreaming simple dreams, while i am awake, poisoned by a petty, furious love, staring at a ceiling that has nothing to say.