Can’t help myself

I used to check the charts every morning like they were weather. In Downtober the screen stayed red longer than the leaves stayed on the trees. I had taken the loan in September when the numbers still looked like they might turn. By the time the first cold rain hit, the trades were already gone and the messages from the broker had stopped pretending to be polite. I sat at the kitchen table with the heating off, watching the balance fall the way the light falls earlier each day. My parents don’t ask about the money anymore. They just leave the door unlocked when they know I’m coming over, the same way they used to when I was younger and still believed the next one would fix it. I tell them I’m fine. The lie sits between us like the empty chair. At night I open the app out of habit. The red numbers don’t move. Outside, the wind scrapes the last leaves across the pavement. I close the screen and sit in the dark with the same question I’ve been asking since the first margin call. Will I ever be saved? The room doesn’t answer. The month keeps getting colder. I stay awake anyway, listening for a number that might still turn, even though I already know what the morning will look like.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​