I remember the specific shade of grey the bathroom tiles were the day I realized I couldn't pretend anymore. Just that bland, institutional grey, reflecting back exactly what I felt inside. It wasn't grey for me, it was beige. That awful, optimistic beige of cheap apartments, promising a fresh start that was already a lie. I can almost smell the paint, still clinging to the falsehood. The chipped Formica countertop, the color of dirty snow. I traced the crack with my fingernail for hours, willing it to swallow me whole. It didn't, but a little piece of me went down there anyway.