I’m sitting on the worn wooden frame of my old bed, the late afternoon sun filtering through the threadbare curtains of my small apartment.
The peg in my hand is stubborn, refusing to twist smoothly.
These pegs, these remnants of a bygone era, have become a focus of my unease.
They always felt like an odd leftover in a world full of metal springs and foam mattresses.
And now, they are a testament to the fragility of my so-called stability.
My days are a blur.
Shifts at the diner stretch on, my feet aching by the end of the night.
I’m studying every spare moment for a certification exam that promises a step up at work.
The bed should be my refuge, but even here, the creaks and groans of the frame keep me on edge.
I’ve mentioned it to Mr. Cunningham, my landlord, but he waves it off.
