Layers of Zoe

Layers of Zoe

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Entry 2: Things That Surprisingly Did Help (Briefly):

“Not healing. Just friction management.” – marginalia on a form marked VOID Closing the door. Not metaphorically. Literally. Writing a to-do list that included “burn everything” and then doing one actual task. Letting the email rot. Dog videos. But only the ones where the dogs ignore everyone. Saying “no” out loud

Entry 1: Things That Did Not Make Me Stronger:

“The strength you admire in others is usually a form of damage management. We are not fine. We are just well catalogued.” – from an unfilled memo, author unknown Crisis. Apparently, it builds character. It mostly builds invoices. Taking the high road. Very scenic. Very unpaid. Having “potential.” The unpaid internship

#19. Eligible.

The weather had been strange for days. Chairs inching away from desks. Books returning to the wrong shelves. Time arriving early and leaving before the second act. She told no one. Dressed for several climates at once: boots and silk, umbrella and sunglasses. Her bag heavier each day – a receipt,

#18. The Moon Resigned.

She said she was tired of supervising tides and poetry. Said every wolf's howl felt like a performance. Said lovers don’t write any more — they outsource. She left a note carved into the back of a mirror: “I was never a muse. You just needed a quiet

#14. The Automated Grief.

They told her the lighthouse had been automated. But every night, the beam blinked once in Morse code – just the letter M. She began blinking back from her window, out of courtesy. By August, the entire bay was answering. Boats turned in circles. Maps had to be redrawn. Still – no

#16. Cold Storage.

The fridge had a second compartment she hadn’t noticed before. It was behind the cheese drawer, and cold from the inside out. Inside were small Tupperware boxes, each labelled with a date that hadn’t happened yet. She opened one and found a conversation, perfectly preserved: her voice, saying

#17. A PhD in Code-Switching for Hostile Space.

The university had a department no one could find on the map. Students were sometimes enrolled by mistake. The syllabus contained only questions that had already ruined someone’s life. Exams were silent and self-administered. Those who passed were sent a certificate printed on edible rice paper, which they were

#15. Minutes Behind.

Everything arrives just after it leaves. She hears laughter in rooms that were silent all day. Finds warmth in a cup after the tea has gone cold. The dogs rest at her feet, but only when she isn’t looking. She replies to messages no one sends. Every time she

#13. Siblings (colder, but it worked).

The hallway wore his coat for three days. It never complained. She replaced the doorknob with a small jar of fog. It worked the same, but colder. The children learned to speak in weather. She nodded when they got the season right. He asked nothing, but rearranged the chairs until

#11. No Manual for Sleep.

The girl lived under a staircase no one believed existed. It was there — but only sideways. She kept a notebook filled with diagrams of escape tunnels — none of which had ever worked. Once a week, she’d test the walls for kindness. They rarely responded. She was given a bell

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