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Morning light filtered through stained curtains. Dust motes float around completely unaware. This feels like a day that exists purely to be remembered later, and inaccurately, by somebody else.

Today I am a piece of furniture with a pulse. Useful, unobtrusive, expected to hold coats and feelings with equal steadiness. It's my best friend's mom's funeral. My job is to say nothing at exactly the right times and stand nearby in case of collapse. I will nod through stories I've heard a dozen times these past three weeks and accept gratitude I didn't earn.

I bought an expensive shirt and jacket. I should remember to cut my nails. I will have to dirty myself again later.