I.
You left early, like always. Same time you do every day. The buildings hadn’t lit yet. The sky was a pale gray, the kind that can’t commit to any particular kind of weather. You hadn’t checked the forecast before you left this morning, so you didn’t bring gloves.
Your headphones were in before you locked the door—the same shuffled mix. The song was already halfway through, like it had started without you. You felt your fingers tense with pain as you turned the first corner.
The walk to class took twelve minutes. It had been for months. You know the exact number of steps it takes to reach the crosswalk from your room. You’ve counted them before, though not recently. You put your head down and kept moving forward.
You passed the Harvard Book Store. The windows were dark. Trash bins sat out like they had the night before. A bottle rolled across the sidewalk. The same man with the same dog passed you near the fire hydrant.
The cement near the first intersection from your dorm was cracked in the same places it had been yesterday. Your shoe caught the edge. Just enough to register. You didn’t break stride.
You glanced to your left, then looked away. There was a bird, cold and motionless, on its side beneath the bus stop outside Lamont. With averted eyes, you wondered how long it had been there, if it would still be there tomorrow.
The light changed as you crossed. You noticed, but you didn’t slow down.
You reached the same building at the same time. The same construction workers stood outside, holding iced coffees. You took out your headphones before walking in and didn’t pause the music. You let it keep playing in your pocket, quietly.
The stairs made more sense. The elevator always took too long. You reached the classroom and sat in your usual seat.
Only three classmates are there. No one looks up. You don’t expect them to.
II.
After class, you left the building without saying anything to anyone.
You weren’t planning to stop. But when you saw the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk and the smell of ground coffee, you stepped inside without thinking.
The shop was too warm. You pulled your scarf off slowly, like you had time. A couple near the window spoke in low voices, but you couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. You try to. You ordered the same thing you always do. No room for cream.
You waited by the register, scrolling. Nothing new. The barista pronounced your name incorrectly, even though it’s been in the Bible for a few thousand years. You didn’t correct her.
Outside, the light had gone flat. Not dark, just dulled. You took your first sip before the door closed behind you. It tasted burnt. You kept drinking it anyway.
The walk back to your dorm was as familiar as your headaches are—dull, predictable, and slightly nauseating. You passed the same lamppost, the same torn flyer for an event that already happened.
A friend texted you, “How was class?” You didn’t answer. You put your phone on silent and slipped it back into your pocket.
When you reached your dorm, your key got stuck in the lock.
Inside, your room was too quiet. You didn’t turn on the overhead light. You dropped your bag by the foot of your bed and sat down in your beanbag without taking off your coat.
You finished the coffee too fast. It made your chest feel hollow and your stomach ache.
You looked around at your things: a pile of laundry, a dead plant on the windowsill, the spoon you’d left in your cereal bowl that morning.
You peered out the window. People walked by aimlessly. You crack open the window, move over your beanbag.
You sat there a while. Not tired. Not awake. Just sitting.
You open your laptop and stare at the screen until it asks you for your password.
III.
You turned the water on before undressing. The tile under your feet was cold. You let the water run longer than necessary. You told yourself it was to warm the room, even though you don’t mind the cold.
You folded your clothes on the closed toilet lid. Pants on top of a sweatshirt. Underwear on top of your shirt. Same way you’ve done it your whole life, with no rhyme or reason.
You stepped into the shower slowly. The water wasn’t hot enough, and then all of a sudden, it was too hot. You didn’t adjust it. You told yourself it would even out. It didn’t.
There was shampoo left in the bottle, but not enough to fill your palm. You used it anyway. It didn’t lather. You washed your hair twice. The second time wasn’t any better.
You scrubbed harder than usual. Behind your ears. The inside of your elbows. The bottoms of your feet. You imagined the bird, folded into itself on the concrete. You imagined the sound it didn’t make.
You stood under the stream with your eyes closed. The water hit the back of your neck, then your spine, then the back of your knees. It pooled at your feet before sliding down the drain. You listened to it go.
You pressed your forehead to the wall. It felt cooler than the rest of the room. The image of the bird was still there, behind your eyelids now. You tried to blink it out. It was just a bird. Scrub the memory away.
It’s stuck, though.
You stayed like that for a while. Long enough to forget what time it was. Long enough to feel embarrassed, standing there with nothing to say to yourself.
The music from your phone echoed in the corner of the room, muffled and directionless. Something ambient. You couldn’t remember pressing play.
There was nothing urgent waiting for you when you got out. No meetings. No people. Just the soft sound of the pipes settling.
You dried off slowly. You sat on the edge of the tub in your towel, legs crossed like you were waiting for someone to knock.
You don’t feel clean. You don’t feel dirty.
IV.
You left your room without really deciding to. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t finished your reading.
You told yourself the library would help, that the act of going somewhere would mean something.
Outside, the sky was still the color of dishwater. The kind of day that never quite becomes anything.
You walked slowly. Not out of fatigue. Just no real reason to rush.
At the crosswalk, there were no cars. Still, you stopped. You waited for the signal because it felt wrong not to.
A bus passed behind you. You felt the air shift around your coat but didn’t turn.
Someone stepped up next to you and crossed. You still waited. You weren’t sure why.
Across the street, a second-floor curtain twitched. You looked up at it for too long. You wondered if someone was watching. You wondered how often they left that room.
A child passed on a scooter, sobbing without restraint. Not loud, just constant. He didn’t care who heard him. You admired that, in a way. The sound followed you for half a block.
As you crossed the street, you checked your phone. No new texts. Three unread emails. You didn’t open them.
The light changed again at the next intersection. This time, you crossed right away.
You passed a shop window and caught your reflection. You looked like someone on their way to do something important. You weren’t. You just looked the part.
You reached the library, sitting next to a seat near an outlet. You opened your laptop and stared at the screen without typing.
You told yourself you would focus this time. No distractions. No Netflix. Just work.
It felt like you’d been staring for hours. Tabs opened. Tabs closed. You couldn’t remember what you were looking for.
V.
You poured cereal into a chipped bowl taken from the dining hall. No milk. You didn’t have any.
You sat on your bed, criss-cross-applesauce. You looked up at your window. Lamps flickered, and bodies blurred.
Your phone buzzed. It was a photo of the dog from your mother. She said, “Look who misses you.” You stared at it. You typed “Aww” and deleted it. Then “cute.” Then nothing. You just loved the image.
The bowl was half empty. Or half full. Either way, you weren’t hungry anymore.
The faucet dripped. You counted seven drops before scrolling on your phone again.
There was an email from a professor. A calendar invite you couldn’t remember accepting. A coupon for laundry detergent.
You wrote a note on your phone: “Finish social studies readings.” Then, you deleted it.
You stand up, wash the bowl, and leave it idly on your desk. You turn off the light and stand there a moment longer, in the dark.
VI.
You opened your laptop without really thinking about it. The show picked up where you left off. Midseason, mid-episode, mid-conversation. Someone was saying something urgent in the kitchen. You couldn’t remember their name. You didn’t rewind. You just threw your computer on the bed.
You turned the volume down to barely audible, not muted, just quiet enough to forget. The light from the screen flickered across the room. The corners stayed dark.
You picked up a pen from the desk. You turned to a blank page in the notebook, the first one. The light from your computer illuminated the pages just enough. The pages were soft at the edges.
You started to draw—a box, then another. You shaded them in, not neatly. You drew a hand, then hated it. You weren’t sure if it looked like a hand or if it just looked tired.
The scene on the screen changed. Now, someone was crying in a parking lot. You checked your phone. No new texts. You hadn’t responded to anything in a few hours. You didn’t want to scroll up to re-read them.
You tried to write something in your notebook. A single line. Then another. You crossed out the second one. You looked at the first. You couldn’t tell if it meant anything or not. You circled one word and stared at it for a while.
You got up to get water. You didn’t drink it. You came back and sat down with the exact same slouch.
The room felt smaller after 10 p.m. Not physically. Just smaller.
The episode ended. Netflix asked if you were still watching. You answered. Started the next episode.
You flipped through the pages of your notebook. Some had lines. A few had fragments you didn’t remember writing. One said, “Get new socks.” Another, “Respond.” You went to the next page.
The pen started to dry out. You looked at your desk and picked up a few POSCA markers. You wanted to draw, you just didn’t know what.
Outside, a car door slammed. You didn’t look out the window. At night, you could hear even the faintest honk. You were always kept up because of it.
The show kept playing. You left it on.
Eventually, you closed the notebook. You didn’t put it away. Just placed it gently on top of a pile of clothes in the corner of your room.
You sat there a little longer, not waiting for anything. Just sitting. The screen lit your face in intervals. The cursor blinked on a blank page.
You didn’t type.
You let the silence stretch.
Luke Wagner ’26 (lukewagner@college.harvard.edu) is the Vice President of the Independent.