Count. Down.

Two weeks from today, I hear my own voice say, explaining with a smile to half-strangers the inner workings of my non-existent plans. Feel a blush at the nonsense I speak. In the apartment, a temporary life lies turned upside down, awaiting judgment. Return to the scene of the crime and feel my stomach turn. The lights are on, but I refuse to look them in the eye. Get drunk instead and sleep for days. Two weeks from today. The leaves at the edge of the tree outside my window have begun to turn yellow. The mornings are cold. My parents call and say they still need the AC in the afternoons.

I don't have time to tell you good-bye.

It's only my disease speaking. I sneak out when no one's looking.

The clinch in my jaw is back.