It’s 1 o’clock, and her phone is charging on the little desk by her neatly made bed perched on a warm piece of paper fresh from the printer. She is at her desk, which is ways away from her bed and its little desk with the phone and the warm paper. Hands outstretched, keys clicking, she smiles. The sun squints through the crack of her window shade, and she walks over to the thin glass window, which is closer to her bed and its little desk with the phone and the warm paper. The shade opens with a rustle, sighing as the sun pours into the room onto her face, blinding her. The birds outside chirp cheerily, the fan whirs persistently in some other room, the clock ticks and then– 

Ding. 

It’s 3 o’clock, and her phone is charging on top of her dresser drawer, which she can reach but only on her tiptoes, perched on the cool piece of paper. She is at her desk, which is ways away from the phone and the piece of paper, miles below the dresser drawer. The sun glares at the computer screen, and she pauses her clicking to stare into the brightness, past her tousled bed and its little desk and into the thin glass window. The concentrated brightness makes her sneeze, and she walks over to the little desk where the toilet paper is. The tousled bed and its little desk are closer to the dresser drawer, but still ways away from the phone and the cool leaf of paper. The room inhales, and then– 

Ding. 

It’s 6 o’clock, and her phone is charging in the other room, the room where the fan is, which she can reach but she has to open her door, walk past a hallway of laughing, graying photos and sparse bookshelves and into the living room. The books are from her friends, her colleagues, sent with some tulips wrapped in crispy plastic and a supermarket card on every birthday because she said she liked to read. In the living room, the phone with the cherry red case lies on the piece of paper, flipped right-side-up so the Times New Roman font is showing. She is at her desk, working, when she feels a gnaw in her gut and she heads to the kitchen, clutching her stomach, clenching her fist, walking down the hallway of smiling photos and sparse bookshelves, dusty with neglect. She looks away, flinching. She can see the kitchen. It is to the right of the living room which is at the end of the hallway, closer but still ways away from the phone and the paper with the writing. Her steps are sure, confident. The end of the hallway approaches, and the drag of her slippers slows. She takes a deep breath, turns right and then-

Ding. 

It’s 8 o’clock, and the blinds are closed because the sun got tired. She’s tired. The ice-cold piece of paper rests on the living room floor, and it is a little crumpled, as if stepped on. The phone with the cherry red case is in the bathroom, and she is in the bathroom, phone dinging. Quiet tears roll down her cheeks.

It’s 10 o’clock and the phone with the cherry red case is on the bed plugged into the charger under the little desk next to the bed. The room is quiet except for the cell’s soft sound. The memory of the paper sticks out through the cacohpony of dings- a painful stab in the chest. She remembers the Times New Roman font, size 12, double-spaced list, and the handwritten title: New Year's Resolutions, with a little heart on the i. Another ding and the memory is gone.

It’s 12 o’clock and the room is dark. Blue light illuminates her face, like a spotlight.

Ding. 

Ding.

Ding.