There are stars on my ceiling. They're the stick-on, glow in the dark ones that are ugly, pale-green during the day, and cheaply lit at night. Because you've had them for years and now that you're not five, they're not cool—they're just an eyesore. There can't be more than ten of them left; all the others eventually fell off from a half-assed job on my behalf when my dad let me help put them up and held the ladder for me while I climbed up and tried not to fall off.

I stare at them sometimes; at three in the morning, sitting on my desk chair and wondering if I should skip on sleep because I know I'll feel miserable the next day and I just need to feel something; at two in the afternoon when I get home from school and collapse on my bed and wonder why any of this is even worth it because every bit of life seems like one colossal waste; at six in the evening when I'm sitting at dinner with my mother and siblings, wondering when anyone will ever really give a shit about me or if there's even anything to really give a shit about; at ten at night when I wonder if I should be doing something more important with my life or go to sleep and wake up well rested for once.

I stare at the stars and think about how I should probably take them off. They don't match anything in my room, and they're too childish to be a part of me—which is in its own way, a very bullshit thought; everyone has always seemed like a child at heart parading around as an adult.

But I should take them down anyway. There's so little of them and everything else in my room is a different color. There's no point of them being there at all.

But I never do.

I've procrastinated on it every day of my life for the past however many years and I'll probably do so until I absolutely have to take them down. Maybe they'll even be there for decades, if the glue is strong enough. I'll be fifty and I'll walk back into this house for a visit, lay my eyes on these hideous stars and think, ah yes, you guys, how nice to know some things don't change.

All a large possibility, since I don't see myself actually doing anything with them any time soon despite whatever false promises I make myself or however many times I'll write it on my to-do list.

I'm a master procrastinator. I'll probably procrastinate until the day I die and then procrastinate on dying. Because if there's anything I can actually manage to follow through on, it'd definitely be that.

"Dalia?"

I don't move. Even though I know my mom is calling me and she'd expect an answer and I'm laying in bed when I told her I'd be doing my homework. I've got earphones in at least, so I can pretend I just didn't hear, and that I didn't blatantly ignored her.

"Dalia?" She tries again, closer this time, moments from my room, and part of me knows out of habit to respond something to her out of being the perfectly polite child she's tried so very hard to raise, but I can't actually bring myself to get up or to even look away from my sad little stars.

"Lia?" Her head dips into my room as my door swings open, and I slowly turn my head at her, wishing she'd knocked first or at the very least announced she was coming in.

I pop one earbud out. "Huh?" I play dumb, as I often do, because not knowing and making a mistake has always worked out better than actually knowing my shit and doing wrong anyways.

"I'm going out for my shift now. There's money on the table if you guys don't want to cook or heat something, okay?" She's tying her hair up as she says it, already in the mindset of an accomplished surgeon. All business.

I hum as well as nod, incase one sign is not enough. "Have a good shift," I say, which is almost painfully awkward to me, but I can't really place why. But Mom smiles at me, likes how nice it is of me. We were on rough terms for awhile (give or take two years) and while all it took was one breakdown at a doctor's appointment, there has seemed to be at least some sort of improvement.

For some things.

"Bye, love you!" She sweeps out of my room before I can even respond but I repeat it back anyways. The words seem to fight their way out of my mouth, bitter on my tongue.

I've always been a picky person.

And it's not in the sense of food or clothes or anything that has ever really been materialistic. I'd always been picky about the less tangible things, the things I could never really categorize. Picky about who deserves my I love you's, and who can surprise me with hugs or randomly be affectionate. In a way, they're about something more real, and they're the things that really matter to me.

But saying I love her is the better thing—no matter how false the words taste to me. She used to make me kiss her cheek, something that made me uncomfortable over more than the fact that I'd grown out of it. But like a lot of things, it's never been something I can explain.

Which is fine; some words don't have to be said in order to be understood.

I grumble, take a glance at my clock, and drag myself over to my desk, the rolling chair sliding away a few inches before I straighten myself out. I shake the mouse a little to bring the monitor back to life and stare at the expanse of words and sentences and paragraphs that are supposed to make up my English Lit essay, but end up letting my forehead drop to the desk.

My life is a painfully mundane thing, but I don't think there's anything I can really do about it.