Just a little bit more

The girl walking toward home stopped at the doorstep, threw the litter away, then entered. The door clicked shut.

Backpack off. Shoes lined up by the wall. She let herself drop onto the sofa.

For a minute, she just sat there. Eyes closed.

A small, real smile appeared — but not for long.It faded.

She opened her eyes.

Kitchen first.Rice was already done — she’d left it on warm that morning. Old habit.

The front door clicked.

Her dad walked in, tie loosened, tired eyes.

She looked up, then went back to work.

A gentle grunt. He dropped onto the sofa.

She didn’t mention the bottle in his hand. Didn’t need to.

From the kitchen doorway, she watched for a second. Then turned away.

Food left in the kitchen. Everything cleaned. Gone.

Chair dragged. Glass clicked. Silence. Then cap opened, wine pouring into glass.

She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. A deep sigh followed.She kept moving slightly in bed until she couldn’t.

The bed disappeared.

Falling began.

No air. No wind. No floor.

Only stillness. Weight.

Inch by inch — she was swallowed by darkness beneath things. Under the bed, under the floor, under the world.

She was falling.

No sound. No wind.

Just down

Deeper.

Then it changed.  The nothing learned a texture.  

It wasn’t water. Not yet. It was the _idea_ of water —  

All around her. All through her.  

Cool. Smooth. It slid along her skin, spreading her hair.  

Then the idea gave up pretending.  

It was water.  

She tried to hold her breath. Tried to swim. Tried to get up.  

She couldn’t.  

All effort sank with her. .

Then —

She woke up.

Gasp. Heart racing.

The room was silent. Morning light on the wall.

"Honey? You up? Breakfast is ready."

Mom from the kitchen.

She lay still for a moment, listening.

Pan on stove. Spoon against mug. Parents talking.

"It’s 8:17! You’re gonna be late for school!"

8:17.

She pushed the blanket off and walked to the kitchen.

Smiling...

Mom was at the stove, flipping a pancake, hair in a bun.

She looked over. “There you are. Sit. Eat before it gets cold.”

Dad was at the table, newspaper open, coffee in hand.

He glanced up. “Morning.”

She sat down.

Chair already pulled out. Plate already there. Pancakes, syrup, milk.

She ate.

They talked — weather, a test she had today.She grabbed her backpack.

Mom kissed her forehead. “Have a good day. Love you.”

Dad patted her head.

The walk to the bus stop was warm. Sun on her neck.

She got on. Found her seat — the same seat.

She leaned her head against the window.Glass warm from the sun.She closed her eyes. Just for a second

“Hey kid, where are you going? Are you okay?”

She opened her eyes.

Cold.

“Yes! I am.”

The bus stopped. She got off.

At the corner shop, she bought flowers. White ones — her mom’s favorite.

The hospital wasn’t far.

Automatic doors slid open.

Her steps softened on the floor.

Room 214.

She pushed the door open.

Beep.

Beep.

“Mom, I’m here to visit.”

She pulled a plastic chair close.

Her hand held her mother’s — too still, too light. Tubes taped to skin.The chair across from her was empty.

She leaned her head on her mom’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, but no movement. 

“Mom…”

“I know… but still.”

She was already asleep again.

She opened her eyes.

Vision blurred.

She blinked twice until the surroundings formed.

She was there in her room, lying in her bed, trying not to hear the sounds, but still—

The pan on the stove.

Clicking of a spoon against a mug.

Her parents chatting.

"It’s 8:17! You’re gonna be late for school!"

8:17.

She pushed the blanket off and ran to the kitchen.

Mom was at the stove. Pancake flipping.

“There you are. Sit. Eat before it gets cold.”

She glanced at the other side 

Dad at the table. Newspaper. Coffee.

“Morning.”

She smiled.

Then—noise. Darkness.

The door moving.

Someone taking—

A nurse walked past. “Visiting hours are almost over.”

She looked at Mom.

At the machines.

At her own breath fogging in the cold room.

She whispered:

"Just a little bit more."

Before closing her eyes once again