Some days, I'll lay in bed for the longest time, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep. I'll run my fingers through my short locks. Perhaps muse about how I need to get up and do something productive, but then I'll just turn to my side, stare at the closed blinds for a while, consider how the sunlight reaches past those tightly shut lines and close my eyes.

"It's hot."

I'll tell myself that, and I'll want to throw off the covers. I'll want to kick them off onto the floor and ignore my sister when she comes in to ask me a random question. My hands graze the tip of the wooden nightstand, feeling for my phone. When I find it, I turn to the other side, tucking my arm underneath my head and scroll through the seemingly endless notifications I have.

The screen's too bright, so I lower it.

There's nothing to see — no one to respond to. No one to talk to. So, I set my phone back onto the nightstand and bury myself under the covers again.

I'll briefly wish it was winter, but then with a small laugh, I'll completely dismiss the idea.

"How stupid."

Then, it wouldn't be summer break.

"But what difference would it make?"

I take summer classes anyway. It was a way in which I can take a few classes I didn't want to take in my last year in high school and make room for classes that I loved while getting college credits at that.

I'm still drowsy with sleep and a yawn takes me in mid-thought. My eyes become glassy, but I wipe the tears away. I blink a couple of times, wondering if I should get up now. It is a couple hours past when I woke at seven in the morning. Maybe I should, or maybe I should just lay there still to come up with a story. Perhaps write the next part of my series even though I usually do that in the dead of night or check up on notifications again. What about that game I play where if I visit once a day, I'll get rewards each week?

My sister comes in yet again, interrupting my thoughts, but I wave her away.

She leaves.

I lay there.

And then I sigh, feeling more tired tears build up on my heated face and roll down the nonexistent bridge of my nose and off my cheek. It's eaten up by the soft fabric of my pillow. A few follow and by the time I'm done yawning while feeling a little bummed out, as usual, I lift up my head. There's a damp patch on my pillow, so I flip it over and plop my head down again.

Then after another hour of staying in bed, I finally fling back the covers, slide my legs off the mattress and snap open the blinds.

I cringe when the light hits my face, but my eyes slowly adjust. Then I just stagger my way through the rest of the wasted morning into the afternoon, brushing my teeth and whatnot. After putting on my glasses so everything is a lot less blurry, I go about the normal day. It's still a little boring — too lackluster and routine for someone like me, but it doesn't really make a difference either way.

Who said reality was something I could just twist and manipulate like words?

Sometimes I wish I could mute the world.

And then I realize that most times, that's what I do.