Another Go-Round

Here I am again, darlings, tucked into this crisp white bed that’s starting to feel far too familiar, like the sheets know the shape of my body better than my own apartment does. The hospital has crept its way into becoming my unfortunate second home—same antiseptic perfume in the air, same soft beeps keeping watch over me through the night, same kind nurses who now greet me with “welcome back, trouble” instead of just my name. I’ve memorized the exact creak of the hallway cart at 3 a.m., the way morning light slices through the blinds in golden bars across my blanket. It’s oddly intimate, this place, but intimacy born of necessity is never quite the romance I crave.

And yet every time they finally let me go, something mischievous inside me whispers “just one more visit,” and before I know it I’m back—pulled by another little mystery in my bloodwork, another cautious glance from the doctor, another “let’s keep you a few more days for observation.” I want to stomp my foot and declare I’m done, that I belong out there causing delicious chaos instead of here playing patient. But the truth is softer: I miss the freedom already, miss slipping into something scandalously short and feeling the night air on my thighs, miss the way eyes follow me when I walk with purpose. This place keeps borrowing me, and I keep letting it.

So here’s my promise to you, my loves: next week I intend to escape for good. I’ll trade these paper gowns for lace, these fluorescent lights for candle glow, these measured steps for heels that click like trouble on tile. Until then, behave terribly without me—stay naughty, break a few hearts, leave lipstick stains where they’ll cause the most scandal. Keep the world wicked and warm so I have something delicious to come home to. I’ll be counting the hours, darlings.