Morning never asked permission.
It arrived every day with the same quiet cruelty—light spilling through the window, the world moving forward whether Arin was ready or not. He lay still on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it cut the air into slow circles.
Everyone else seemed to wake up knowing who they were supposed to be.
Arin didn't.
His phone buzzed with notifications he didn't open. Messages. Expectations. The soft pressure of time tapping on his chest. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and whispered to the empty room, "Just give me one reason to move."
Silence answered.
So he moved anyway.