I don’t hear from Beth for days. But I do hear from Anneliese, who texts back to say everything’s fine, that she had a lovely birthday, and to thank me again for the present. She asks if I want to come to Astoria again to spend time with her and the kids. I say yes, knowing that I need to speak to someone besides my coworkers for at least a few hours.

Work used to be a respite of sorts, a way in which I could shift my brain away from those sleepless nights, to think about something other than how I had crawled into a crevice and couldn’t find my way out. I had asked to work from home a few weeks after my dad died, when seeing people, sharing a space with other sentient beings, had become too difficult. My boss said yes; half our employees were working remotely from Dallas anyway.

I would zero in on my tasks at hand for eight hours a day, five days a week, and guzzle coffee, hoping each time that I’d be so depleted I’d have to fall into some deep, magnificent slumber. Of course, that never happened. But it did serve its purpose in other ways, besides enough income to cover rent and food so I wouldn’t have to think about the money my dad had left me. It filled the days.

But lately, now that I have actually started sleeping, work hasn’t been enough. During the long days of reading market research, of attempting to produce catchy copy, my eyes blurring from the glare of the computer screen in my darkened apartment, I want something more, something else, to feel a little alive. I’ve stopped meeting anyone in person, relying instead on phone calls. I know I am messing up, that I’ve made mistakes these last few weeks that, if I were back in the office, would make my coworkers side-eye me, mutter distasteful words just loud enough that I could hear them. Somehow, I don’t really care.

I shut off my laptop an hour earlier than I should, ignoring pings from Slack, and slide on my loafers. If I wait any longer, I know it’ll be rush hour, and I can’t bear the thought of squeezing my way into the subway, my nose nestled in someone’s armpit for the long ride out.

When I finally get to the apartment, I have to buzz the intercom a few times. Around me, people are getting home from work, shirts creased, postures slouched. A few kids in backpacks run by, chasing one another, spilling a bag of Doritos on the sidewalk in their pursuit. It makes me smile in spite of myself. I’ve begun to view the world in sharper focus, I realize, since I’ve started sleeping better. Little moments of joy, even if they’re not my own, make me happier.