I bring a spoonful of soup to my nose and sniff before tasting. I can’t smell anything. I fumble the empty spoon onto the floor by my feet. When I bend to pick it up, I feel my chest tighten and I start to cough. Just lightly at first, but it becomes a fit.

When the coughing finally stops, I can feel the tears on my cheeks.

Another long night of tossing and turning in the dark. Nights shouldn’t feel as long as days. Nights are meant to go by in the blink of an eye. I’m supposed to wake up feeling rested and refreshed. But I never do.

I have no idea what time it is. My covers are up to my chin, but I still feel a chill. My bedroom, like the living room, is cramped and cluttered. I don’t have the energy to get rid of anything. I shift my position, moving over to the other side of the mattress. Despite being tired, I can’t fall asleep.

Just as I feel myself drifting off, I hear a voice, high-pitched, from the other side of the wall.

“Stop,” I hear. “Listen.”

I didn’t realize I had any neighbors right next door, on the other side of the wall. I thought the tenant there had left weeks ago. She’s loud and firm without yelling. She sounds serious. It’s too muffled to make out what else she’s saying. I hear a chair fall over, or a door close.

I roll onto my stomach, trying desperately to fall sleep, using my thin pillow to muffle the noise.

I’m going through my morning routine in the bathroom the same way I do every morning, brushing my teeth, washing my face. I splash a handful of warm water onto my cheeks. I used to have smooth skin; strangers would tell me I looked young for my age. My white hair is thinning and flat. I stopped coloring it a few years ago. I’ve always been short, lean, but I’ve lost weight. I know without stepping on a scale. I’m scrawny now, withered. I’m parched and shrunken like dried fruit. I’ve never moved gracefully, but my arthritic knee has made me slower and even more inelegant. It aches.

Once dressed, I time myself using the clock hanging on the wall, and it takes nine minutes for me to get ready, bundling up in my jacket, boots, gloves, scarf, hat. Nine full minutes. I imagine it’s as time-consuming as it would be preparing a toddler. Almost ten minutes just to leave my apartment in winter. All this to get a few groceries.

I descend in the elevator, exit my building, and walk along the slushy sidewalk, wheeling a small cart behind me. I walk slowly, carefully, past an office building’s large ground-floor window. I would pass this building on my way to the bank each day. I pause when I see my full reflection in the glass. My hunch has worsened. When did I stop taking care of myself?