2 February 2026

First you learn with water. Then with pills. Then with words like sorry and I'm fine and no it's okay, really. The pharmacist knows my name now, knows which pills rattle in the orange bottle vs. the white one, knows not to make small talk on Thursdays. My girlfriend says I take them like I'm apologizing to my body. Lips pressed together, eyes closed, a small shake of the head. She doesn't know I'm apologizing for needing them at all. For the mornings I stand in the kitchen counting: one blue, two white, the small pink one that makes me sleepy enough to feel human. Sometimes I hold them in my palm and think about other things I've swallowed. her name in public spaces, the fact that some days my brain is a faulty circuit, the way my mother's voice still lives somewhere behind my sternum. The water goes down easy. Everything else catches.

SableMoonhow to swallow • Opuss № I