The Cool

Woke up and the heat was gone.

Just like that. The night sweat

had done its work.

The sheets were twisted around me

like something that had fought me and lost.

The pillow was cold.

For the first time in three days

I could think.

The fog lifted.

I lay there for a second,

not moving, afraid if I moved

it would come back.

But it didn't.

The clarity stayed.

This is what people don't describe—

that specific second when the body

stops working against you.

When the fever breaks

and you realize how long

you've been burning.

How much effort it took

just to exist in that heat.

And now the effort is gone

and you're exhausted by the relief of it.

I got up slowly.

The house was still quiet.

My skin felt thin. Permeable.

Like I'd sweated out a layer

and now I was just barely contained.

But I could think.

I could remember my name.

I could hold a glass

without it slipping.

The fever would probably return.

But right now, in this second,

I was just grateful

for the small mercy of coolness,

the small mercy of my own mind

coming back into focus.