Monday. 08:45. THE LAST BREATH

08:45 AM. The exact minute the world expects you to be a machine, but you’ve chosen to be a sediment. A tailored suit surrendering to lukewarm water. It’s not a cry for help; it’s a formal statement of exhaustion. The grain is the only thing moving in this room.

"The second hand is twitching. 08:45. Somewhere, a coffee machine is hissing and a laptop is glowing, waiting for my fingerprints. But I’m busy feeling the water climb up my spine. My tie is heavy, soaked in the silence of this bathroom. I’ve already attended the only meeting that matters: the one between my ribs and this cold porcelain. Let them call. I’m already under."