A Girl, 9:43 p.m.

She has just showered, and her hair hangs limp down her back, washed of the shampoo she waited five minutes, forehead against the cool tile wall, to rinse off. The sky is ink and charcoal, but then, it has been for hours. She looks at the wide yellow dish of a moon hanging low outside her curtainless windows and wishes she could see the snow that is hidden by the night. She doesn't want to sleep, but fatigue hangs heavy in her forehead. Her small bed beckons her. 

She can no longer fall asleep to silence. She needs a podcast, a smooth voice to drown out her thoughts. Not that her thoughts are so bad; they just won't do at this hour. She wants to wake up somewhere nice. Italy. France. She wants to wake up with someone's arm around her. She also doesn't, because the idea of it seems odd. She is too much of a romantic, she thinks. She knows nothing of the world. She needs to straighten herself out.

She wonders what will gather and hum around her as she sleeps. The voice in the podcast, all the thoughts she could have but won't because sleep will have stuffed cotton into her ears. Her dreams, which she'll wake up and forget to write down, save the best ones to tell friends in the hallway. The dreams of everyone who sometimes thinks of her. 

Tomorrow, when she steps outside and sees her breath, she will wonder why the pink morning sky comes at such a price. At least, she thinks, she is not cold right now, as she lies under her blankets in a house where the heat is always on too high. Tomorrow her face will turn to frost again, until she steps into school and a friend tries to warm her hands.