She feels alone. Feels it. As in, the space around her seems hollow, carved away from her, leaving her floating, untethered from any of her surroundings. She misses Suzy. She misses her lips wet with saliva, the vibrations of her giggle underneath her shirt. She misses the warmth of Suzy’s body, tucked next to her in bed.

It is too cold to water the plants. Too cold to feed the fish. Too cold to turn on the stove. Too cold to turn off the television. Too cold to peel her underwear off, crusty from multiple days of sitting in her own filth. Too cold to turn on the lights.

Too cold to sleep.

She feels the cold in the marrow of her bones, even as she tucks herself into the blanket still folded neatly on the couch. Even as she pulls her parka over her sweats, sitting in the jacket for days on end. Even when, on one of her daily trips off the couch, she turns the heat to eighty-five degrees. She stumbles into the bathroom and rifles through the medicine cabinet for a thermometer. She gags on its metallic taste. There is no fever.

Yet she thinks she is dying. And she welcomes it. The light from the television is celestial, guiding her as she stares at it, never fully absorbing what is on the screen. Only continually mesmerized by that glare, the warmth it promises. A warmth that seems just out of reach. Her teeth chatter as she sweats.

Later, she sees flashes of her past on the screen, and she wonders why they aren’t showing a Christmas special, a holiday movie. Why, instead, has God decided to create a highlight reel, a blurred sequence of little moments? Bloody moments.

She reaches out to touch her past, but it is swallowed by the screen. A cry reaches her throat and out comes blood, lots of it, sliding out of her mouth. No, not blood. It’s thick, clotted and brown, the texture of mucus, and she tries to cup it into her hands until it, too, evaporates.

Someone is screaming at her. She blinks slowly but they don’t go away, and this time when she reaches out a hand, she feels flesh. It’s warm.

It’s her classmate. Back from her trip. But that’s impossible. It hasn’t been a week. She just got there, didn’t she? Only last night. Three days max. Where did time hide this time?

The fish are dead. The plants have wilted. The house is a mess. Filthy. It’s Annie’s fault, and she stands up and gathers her things, and she is so cold, so stiff that she wants to hug this woman, cling to her for warmth. But the door is being opened for her, and she is out in the street, and the date on the newspaper thrown haphazardly in front of an adjoining apartment confirms that it is indeed January 1.