Don't LOOK @ Me

Neon says it’s Thursday.

I nod when Her says it. I always do. Thursdays are safe days, I think. Or maybe that’s Tuesdays. The days feel like colors more than names now—some bright, some dull, some better avoided. Still, Thursday sounds right in Neon’s mouth. Calm. Assured. Like Her saying it makes it true. When Neon leaves the room, I let myself move again. That’s when I check the fridge. The date is written in neat, careful handwriting, the marker thick and dark so it won’t fade. MONDAY. I stare at it longer than I should. My head does that buzzing thing again, like when you wake up too fast from a dream and the room hasn’t finished loading yet. Monday. But Neon said Thursday. I tell myself Neon updated it and I just missed it. Or Neon forgot. Or I’m the one forgetting again. That happens sometimes. I’ve been told that gently, many times, like it’s a fragile truth that might crack if spoken too loudly. Still. I erase the word with my sleeve. The marker smears but doesn’t disappear completely. Ghost-letters cling to the metal, stubborn. I write THURSDAY over it, careful to match Neon’s handwriting as best I can. I’ve practiced. Neon likes things consistent. When Her footsteps pause outside the kitchen, my stomach tightens—not fear, exactly. More like anticipation. Like waiting to be graded. Neon comes in, glances at the fridge, and smiles. “Good,” Her says. “I thought I’d forgotten to update it.” Relief rushes through me so fast my eyes sting. I did something right. I did something helpful. My chest feels warm, buzzing, the way it does when Neon touches my hair just once and then stops. But something itches at the back of my mind. Later, while Neon showers, I sit on the bed and try to remember yesterday. I remember going to sleep. I remember waking up. I remember eating breakfast. I remember Neon watching me eat, reminding me to take my time, to breathe. I don’t remember the space between. I check my phone. There are no messages. There never are. The lock screen says Thursday, 9:12 AM. That matches. That’s good. Except— My last photo is of the same breakfast plate. Same angle. Same crumbs. Same light through the window. Timestamped Monday. I scroll. There are more. Each day the same plate. The same cup. The same half-moon crack in the table. Different timestamps. Same moment. My hands start to shake. I tuck them under my thighs the way Neon taught me. Pressure helps. Being still helps. Panic is useless. Neon steps out of the bathroom, hair damp, expression softening when Her eyes find me. “There you are,” Her says. “You went quiet.” “I’m fine,” I answer immediately. The words come out clean. Easy. Rehearsed. Neon smiles like I’ve solved a puzzle correctly and comes to sit beside me. Her hand settles on my knee—not gripping, just present. Anchoring. “What were you doing?” Her asks. I think about the fridge. The photos. The word Monday bleeding through Thursday like a bruise that won’t heal. I look at Neon instead. “Waiting,” I say. Her thumb strokes my leg once. Approval. Or comfort. Or both. “That’s my Venus,” Neon murmurs. “You’re safe. See? Everything’s moving forward.” I nod. I always nod. But as Neon pulls me closer, I realize something small and terrible— I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting. And I don’t remember a time when Neon wasn’t here to tell me what day it is.