i don't know what this is

You cooked chilli, I remember because it wouldn't settle and just sat in the pit of my stomach until I went and threw up in the bathroom. We only had Diet Coke in the fridge so I poured myself a glass. You watched crime dramas on TV and complained when I flicked during the adverts, even though you hate adverts and always made fun of them. The time on the computer got to reading 00:17 and you decided it was the perfect time to wash the pots. Then another one of your long rambling goodbyes that seem to end then start back up again, almost immediately. As I drained my glass I saw all the lint and fluff from the carpet sticking to the bottom, trapped by the condensation. It made me sick, like all that dirt could get into my throat and knot together in my stomach. I put down the glass. The light from the lamps didn't seem to reach all four corners and just reflected in the mirror. It was still too hot even with the heating off. I never liked to open the windows because it made the house seem less safe and as I thought that I got scared, and turned the volume up. My skin felt soft and malleable and natural yet faintly sticky, without make up on. I was sweaty with the heat of the whirring laptop and the lack of air and not moving. At 00:31 I shut down and went to bed.