diary

You landed in Bali clean enough. Something bit you in the hotel and you didn’t sleep. The new place was calm. Then it rained hard, straw came down from the ceiling, a bit of flooding. That’s Ubud, you said. Then you sat with an Airbnb decision for a long time. Outdoor space. TV. Distance. The loop kept running. The turning point was a single word. Not the TV, not the outdoor bit. Homely. You ended up booking somewhere else entirely. Red curved sofa. Turquoise beams.

Short one. You’d left the accounts job email open all day and answered nothing. You said the money was fine and the hours were fine and that was sort of the problem. Then you went to bed.

You rewrote a message eleven times and sent the first version. It took forty minutes. You said you knew that was mad while you were doing it, and did it anyway. The shoulder was bad again by the end of it, which you noticed out loud and then moved past.

Your sister rang and you let it go to voicemail, then thought about it for two hours. You didn’t call back. You talked about how the not-calling costs more than the call would, and then said you’d do it tomorrow. You have said tomorrow before.

You did sixty miles on the bike instead of running, because of the calf. Came back pleased. Then spent the evening reading about frozen shoulder recovery times and went to bed annoyed. Same day, both of those.

Mostly about the group chat. Somebody made a joke, you laughed, and then at 1am you were still turning over whether it was about you. You said you know it almost certainly wasn’t. You checked twice anyway.

You said the flat feels temporary and you’ve been there two years. You listed things you haven’t done — no pictures up, no proper table, the spare room still boxes. You didn’t want to make it mean anything. Fine.

Quick one before bed. Work was fine, the physio said it’s improving, you ate properly. You said there was nothing to talk about and then talked for twenty minutes about your dad.