Mia Ballard

Me? I exist in grayscale. I am thirty, alone, and unraveling quietly enough that no one’s noticed. Yet.

Afterward, a shower. The water is nearly scalding. My skin blooms pink under the spray, and for a moment, I feel real. It reddens my skin, burns the surface, makes me feel tangible in a way I need. The soap I use smells of lavender, but it’s the heat that matters, the way it makes the world shrink to just this—just skin, water, and the steam that curls like a second body around me. The towel is folded when I finish, its edges even as I drape it back over the rack. Lavender lingers faintly in the air.

But the job was a mask, not a cure. It hid the cracks but didn’t fix them. I’ve been depressed far longer than I’ve been unemployed.