You know that feeling when the air in your own goddamn apartment starts to taste stale, like the inside of a forgotten coffee mug, because the last conversation you had that wasn't about a font choice or whether Mom remembered to take her evening meds was… well, you can’t even remember. It’s been weeks, right? Like, WEEKS. And you just stare at the calendar, watching the little red 'X's pile up, each one a silent scream because the only actual sound that breaks the quiet is your own fingers on the goddamn keyboard, designing some bland infographic for some soulless company while the only person who actually needs you can't even tell you her name sometimes. And you just want to punch a wall, or maybe just scream into the void that your siblings left wide open when they decided their lives were too important to be bothered.