I dreamed

The headline sits on the ceiling fan, spinning slow. It’s not just text; it’s a weight, a grey stone hanging from the blades, dragging the air down into a thick, damp fog. 18.7 degrees, but it feels like the pressure is dropping inside the room. The women aren’t there, obviously. They’re just a hum, a low-frequency vibration that rattles the teeth in my jaw. I try to speak, but the words come out heavy, saturated with that 67% humidity. The fog clings to the walls, soaking into the plaster. I look at the clock. It’s 3am, but the minute hand is stuck, bent double by the weight of the diagnosis. The fan keeps turning. The stone keeps swinging. I reach for a glass of water, but the glass is full of grey mist. I drink it anyway. It tastes like waiting.