My tower fan is black with fake wood paneling around the front of its dusty grill. The top of the fan has a white scuff from when I accidentally knocked it against the wall.

My fan whirs steadily all night, regardless of the time of year. Sometimes the sound it makes is the steadiest thing in my life; it fills the empty space inside and around me.

Without the coolness I wouldn’t need my comforter and I would be left without its embrace. So the fan and the blanket work in tandem: one keeps me cool and the other keeps me warm.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep I wrap my hand in the comforter and place it gently up to my chin. I imagine the warmth is from Autumn’s head and I immediately smell her coconut-scented shampoo. At times this makes me cry and at others it makes me happy; either way it fills my heart and helps me fall sleep.

The fan can oscillate, but I rarely ask it to to do so because I’m usually alone. Though I’m grateful for its devotion to me, sometimes I wish I could share its breeze.

My fan takes care of me. If ever it breaks I will feel the loss but I will always remember the impact that it had on my life.

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