Shower

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your pyjama bottoms again and push them down, letting them pool softly around your ankles before stepping out. Your knickers follow, a quick tug and they’re free, the cotton still faintly warm from your body. You pull your old T-shirt over your head, hair lifting and falling messily back into place, and drop it on top of the rest.

The laundry basket sits in the corner, lid half open. You scoop up the little pile of clothes, then you drop them into the laundry basket. A soft thump as they land on top of yesterday’s clothes. The room feels cooler now against your bare skin.

You step into the shower cubicle, your toes curling against the tiles. The air inside is still dry, holding the faint scent of yesterday’s conditioner. You pull the glass door closed behind you, the latch clicking softly, sealing you into the small space.

As you twist the shower knob, the water splashes against your feet, quick droplets chasing one another down your calves.

It’s still early. The whole house is asleep. And for now, it’s just you, the water, and the quiet.