I woke up, vaguely remembering where I was. It was ten o'clock at night and my laptop lay open next to me, playing some album I had on repeat for the past however many hours. The sticky sweet taste of coffee ice cream lingered on my lips. Well, and half of my face too. Turns out I fell asleep with a spoon of ice cream in my mouth.

I was editing a classmate's essay around six or seven. I intended to rest my eyes for a few moments. It had been a whole day of debating and mountains of homework lay in front of me. I wanted to do everything and nothing all at once. So, I decided to do the latter. I fell asleep with my face pressed to my keyboard. Blankets surrounded me, drowning my small body.

I was content.

Fast-forward a week: it was six-twenty in the morning and I was back at it again. I pulled on my tights, slipped into my dress and wrapped myself into a floor length cardigan. I swiped concealer under my eyes on and painted my lips with color. We left the house and the sun was already awake. She blinded our faces.

I spent the day speaking and arguing and socializing and fretting over small things. I taught and poorly explained the basics of debate to the kiddos of the team. They're an impressive group of kids. I love them already.

The day did not go as they usually went. I was upset and frustrated and confused as to why I was upset and frustrated. Later, there was more ice cream, more friends, and more blankets.

I was exhausted.

The next day, I woke up to happy words. It was eight-thirty in the morning. I spent the day doodling and writing and keeping to myself. I also half-finished most of my assignments. I napped on the couch in the sun and in my bedroom behind drapes pulled together and in the kitchen over a notebook with a pen in hand.

The family came over, but I was still too tired and too drained to interact. I covered myself in blankets and pillows; I wanted to drown in silence and be alone. Guilt twinged my thoughts, but I was too worn out to do anything about it.

I was trying.

I'm exhausted.