I’ve been home for almost two weeks straight now. Which, for me, is just… weird. Usually, I'm never in one place that long. Even when I was a kid, my parents had me in so many activities, I was basically living out of a car. Now, it’s just this big house, totally quiet, especially since the neighbors leave for work before I even get out of bed. It’s too big, honestly. Like, I’ll walk into the living room, and it feels like an airport terminal that just… isn't busy. My parents always said it was a good investment, perfect for a family. Now it just feels like too much space for one person. I wake up, and there’s no immediate urgency. No class to rush to, no club meeting, no work shift. It’s just me, and the really big, really quiet house. I tried to fill the time, you know? Cleaned my room, organized my closet, even started that online course I signed up for. But after a few days, it just became this… routine of emptiness. I go downstairs, make coffee, look out the window at Mrs. Henderson’s perfectly manicured lawn, and then… what? The silence in here is almost physical. It presses in. I thought I wanted this, this freedom from schedules. But it’s not freedom, it’s just… drifting. It's strange because for so long, all I wanted was to be out of my parents' house, to have my own space, to do whatever I wanted. And now I have it. I can stay up all night, eat cereal for dinner, not talk to anyone for days. And it’s not what I expected. It’s not exciting. It’s just… a lot of time to notice how much space there is, and how little I actually have to fill it with. I keep thinking maybe I should get a job, even though I don't really need the money. Just something to have to *go* to. Something to break up the endless quiet. It’s almost like I’m waiting for something to happen, but nothing does. Just the quiet.