On chaos.

There it was, in the morning: blood smeared on the bathroom light switch from when I’d stumbled in after hurrying out of bed.

I’d been stirred from sleep somehow and felt it—the uncomfortable sensation of something suddenly flowing. In public, I’d have gone for the modest dab to check—sometimes, after all, it really is just snot. But, here, in the middle of the night, I smeared my hand across my face for the evidence. Blood all over my fingers, ink-black in the dark.

I don’t know what a good time to get a nosebleed might be—maybe in the shower? It’s in their nature to be inopportune. Once, in the midst of making out, I was surprised to see my companion’s suddenly blood-smeared face. Oh god, is that you or me?

There are no secrets to making it stop, despite what they say. There is only time, and wondering against all sense. What if this is it?