Sewn in.

I don't know where to put my hands when I speak to her. Painfully aware of my extremities when we meet, I feel the sudden need to hide behind myself or perhaps hate her instead. Fingers crawl up and down my arms, finding pockets, tags, loose threads to cling onto. My feet shuffle into non-verbal conversations while I stammer my way through not telling her what I need to.

The photocopier whirrs. I pull off a button.

I take coffee with no sugar because there is no sugar to put in my coffee. Sharp and bitter, I talk too much and incoherently. The words throw themselves at and off the walls and into the sink to be washed.

The doors lining the corridor mark a game of cuckoo as they open and shut all day. I often walk past my door, thinking the corridor is longer than it is. In one week, sitting at my desk, I will recognise the professors outside according to the weight of their step.

We dusted the bookshelves and then they disappeared.