Melodramatic Morning

MC's thoughts between the moment they get up to the one they decide to grab their phone.

Here are a few questions to help guide your feedback:
(Simple Yes/No answers are welcomed, but brutally honest explanations are preferred.)

> Did this scene make you want to keep reading? Would you read a whole chapter of it?
> Did this story remind you of another book or author? If yes, who/what—and in what way?
> How do you feel about the main character? Do you care what happens to them?
> At what point, if any, did you want to stop reading before the end/felt like you were reading just to get through it?
> If you stopped reading before the end, what made you stop?
> What lines stuck with you (good or bad)? What was it about the story that remained with you
> Was anything predictable or too vague/confusing?
> Is the voice or tone working for you? If not, what feels off?
> What emotion (if any) did this scene/section leave you with?
> Is there a part that felt fake, forced, overwritten, or just off to you? Point it out—even if you're not sure why it didn’t work.
> Was there anything in the story that didn't make sense?


Thanks for taking the time to leave thoughtful feedback.
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[Updated, Tightened]

I wake up. Not because I was well-rested, nor because I wanted to, but because of the sound of a notification—like a fork clattering on tile. "General and Differential Psychology – 9:00." I keep meaning to delete the calendar, but every time I try, I can’t figure out how. It’s easier to let it jolt me awake every morning. Let it be my punishment for not dealing with it.

Behind my eyelids, the dream lingers. Not the details, just the feelings. Helplessness, inadequacy. Betrayals my waking mind saw coming but my subconscious still begs to avoid. Abandoned, used, tricked, stupid for hoping. Same story, every night. Sleep felt like being tied up to a chair while my brain dusts off its greatest hits. Every morning, I wake up to the encore. I don’t wake with relief. I wake with resignation.

In another reality, things would have been different. I would’ve gotten up, dressed, and walked out the door, ready to face the day as the version of me I was meant to be. General and Differential Psychology. I’d be at Uni, taking my exam, answering questions, hitting those marks. Everything would’ve been fine. I thought I had it all figured out.

My neck aches. The pain brings me back to my current reality. The mattress beneath me is sunken in like a footprint in snow that never melts. I paid extra for “orthopedic support" – it gave up before I did. I haphazardly tacked a black dress over the window. A makeshift curtain holding the room in perpetual twilight. But the sunlight—intrusive—leaks through it. It mocks my failed attempt to keep the day out. Sunlight used to make me happy. Now it feels like surveillance. A pale, cold spotlight aimed at me like a cop’s flashlight through a car window. "What are you doing in bed? Why are you not partaking in the day? Get up. Hit your mark. Deliver your lines." No, it wasn’t sunlight—it was my cue, it was stage lighting. I’ve long outgrown this role but I can’t seem to escape it. I could play someone else. “Up and at ’em,” I could say. But my brain would shrug. The treats ran out months ago. It knows I am no master. I am the joke.

Maybe my bladder would get me up, but I don’t. Maybe if I hold it long enough, my body will forget it ever needed anything at all. There’s something humiliating about giving in to basic needs. Acknowledging them feels like admitting I’m still belonging to this circus. I don’t want to belong to anything anymore.

My eyes drift across the wreckage of my room.
The chaos stares back at me. Every surface is a witness. The mirror, the laptop, the new expensive vacuum I bought in a “new me” delusion moment—silently judging me, tired of trying to guilt me into motion. It was staring at me too. Like a disappointed gym coach. “We had a plan,” it seems to say. “You promised us a montage.” But shame and disappointment do not work anymore. The floor is covered in discarded plastic wrappers, clothes thrown everywhere, half-eaten snacks lie where I dropped them. The air is thick with the scent of old pre-cooked meals and the faint metallic tang of existential despair. A landfill with a roof—not even mine.
I shift slightly, something crackles under my hip. Probably a cookie. My bed isn’t a place to rest anymore. It’s a graveyard of unfinished comforts. Chocolate stains mark the fabric—dark patches of guilt. Even comfort leaves a mess when it goes wrong.

My hair is greasy, my head fogged over and my mouth coated with the sour taste of sugar and regret. My sweaty shirt smells like a fever. It doubles as a napkin. It wears yesterday like a badge. I pick absent-mindedly at the peeling skin around my nails until a sting warns me that I’ve drawn blood. I wipe it against my shirt. It blends in. Yesterday wasn’t replaced. It calcified. The weight of it—and the days before—clings to me like an old coat.

A patch of light shifts on the ceiling—barely—but enough to tell me: Time is moving. Whether I join or not. It doesn't care about my crisis. I should care. I should but « should » became too heavy. Even if I did get up, what for?

Cleaning? I tried cleaning. It made no difference.
The mess always wins. I picked up clothes. Put on music. Tried to feel like a person. Turned around—and the mess had reclaimed its throne. Like the room rejected change.
Every time I try to climb out, it pulls me back under. Like a black tide. Unlike Sisyphus, I dropped the stone and let it roll over me. Now I just lie here—flattened by the weight of my own story.
I tried writing to-dos lists every day, hoping for structure, but I never finish them. There’s one on my desk. I don’t even have to look. Brush teeth. Shower. Do one load of laundry. The boxes are all empty.The act of checking things off became a repetitive ritual that brought no satisfaction or sense of accomplishment. No hit, no reward, no point. System overload.

I nuzzle my pillow, hoping I could go back to sleep.
I had no desire of death, I have desires of being left alone.
If I keep ignoring life, does it eventually leave me alone? I stopped answering letters. Stopped picking up calls. Stopped cleaning. Stopped apologizing. Let the day rot around me.

A tiny yank at my hair cuts through my thoughts. My fingers drift upward and stop when they feel it. Gum. Of course. “Serves you right, dumbass.” I flinch at my own tone. It’s the voice of someone who’s done repeating the same things to herself. There’s no mercy in it. I yank my hand away, resisting the urge to rip the mess out. I make a mental note to cut it out later. “Doesn’t matter. ” There’s nothing left to ruin. Not like there’s beauty to preserve.

I couldn't go back to sleep so I reach for my phone—it’s close enough to being asleep. My brain didn’t argue with it. It never argues with escape. It’s designed for it. Thumb scrolling before I even gave the word. The screen lights up. No notifications. No messages. No one reaching out. The silence used to hurt. Now it feels clean. Quiet. Like I’ve been deleted from life’s group project.


My inbox is cluttered with corporate affection.
Subject lines blur: my opinion matters, gifts await. 'We miss you.'
I miss me too. She wasn’t perfect but she got things done. She flossed.

"Final Notice – Internet Service Payment Overdue."
I reach for the debit card on my nightstand—the only structure I obey.
The provider isn’t a utility anymore. It’s a dealer. No connection, no hit. Paid. Relief. Immediate.

The apps open themselves. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Occasionally, something meaningful pops up. I swipe past it. Whatever it takes to care—it’s not in me anymore. The algorithm knows me better than I know myself. Sometimes, I want to sit it down and ask what else it knows about me. It seemed to hold answers I needed.

Swipe.
A girl with perfect hair glides across the screen, sipping matcha in silk pajamas, her face glowing like she was born in a skincare ad.
She’s my age. Maybe younger. Probably knows what "accrual" and "asset allocation" mean.
Tap. "Like" for the illusion of comfort.

Another swipe.
Political rant. "Burn the system down!"
I might add that one to my to-do list while I'm at it.

Another swipe.
A meme.
A brief smirk.
Tap. « Like »

Another swipe.
"As a woman, if you don’t have children, what’s your use?"
Looks like there's two of us overthinking my existence late at night.

Another swipe.
A girl talking to the camera.
“I’m scared.”
“I feel behind.”
“I haven’t brushed my hair in days.”
In the comments, more girls confess. Drowning in different rooms.

Another swipe.
‘Change your life in five easy steps.’
Watched them. Saved them. Ignored them.
I don’t have it in me anymore. The tank is empty. I know I need gas, the car from rusting by the side of the road. I’m not even here anymore. Just a thumb. Just a screen. A ghost in a shell.
Sedated. Hypnotized.
I forgot what I was even thinking about.
Tap. Scroll.
Maybe the next video.
Maybe the next one.
I'm a corpse on a bed with my phone for a defibrillator—and it keeps missing.