The roommate has to pee, little reminders that this place isn’t mine, not my domain, never truly alone. Warm bath couch haven misplaced dreamstates standing still water. Cold feet, dripping water on the tiles, standing at my door feet marching on carpet until he’s done, cracking bedroom door and wondering how much longer until I can return to my liquid form again. The pain in my bladder keeping me company, sharp reminders of my vulnerability — as if I could ever truly get away from that.

When I can condense no further it’s back to my bedroom, where I can be content to sometimes pee on a towel if I want to. Who’s going to tell me where I can and can’t pee? I’m an adult, after all. It’s a trickle down effect — my bladder never knows what’s in it or how much, it just knows that it wants something to be different.