Three days into my insomnia, I started cycling to the park at 4 AM.

No reason. Just to ride.

Five laps. Always five. The park was small. A loop took about a minute.

On the third lap of the second night, there was a woman on a bench, chewing something. Wood. She was chewing a piece of the bench’s armrest. Half her head was bare. Scalp exposed. The other half, long hair down to the ground, pooling around her feet.

I kept riding. Finished my five laps. Went home.

But I kept thinking about it. The asymmetry. The left side bare, the right side long. It looked deliberate.

The next night, there were two women. Same bench. Both chewing. Both with the same hair. Left side bare, right side long.

I did my five laps. But on the way out, I thought: Why both the same?

I turned back. Rode past them again. Looked closer. Yes. Both had the left side bare. That’s a pattern. That means something.

I did another lap to confirm. Then another, because I wasn’t sure if I’d counted right. Stopped at seven. Seven felt wrong. Did two more. Nine felt worse.

Started over. One, two, three, four, five.

When I got home, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Ran my hand through my hair. Even on both sides. Thick. Healthy.

I thought: What if it wasn’t?

Fourth night: three women. All the same. Left side bare, right side long. All eating wood.

There was hair on the ground near the benches. Long strands, scattered under the streetlight. I thought it was the wind.

I did my five laps. On the last one, I reached up and touched my own hair while riding. Left side, right side. Same length. Even.

But I kept checking. Left, right, left, right.

The difference bothered me. I had both sides. They didn’t.

Fifth night: I brought scissors.

I didn’t use them. Just carried them in my pocket. But I kept touching them. Making sure they were there.

I did twelve laps that night. I’d lost count somewhere around eight.

Sixth night: I parked my bike. Sat on an empty bench across from them.

One of the women looked up at me. Kept chewing. A few strands of hair slipped from her head and fell silently to the ground. She didn’t notice.

I took out the scissors.

Just to match them. To understand.

I cut a small piece from the left side. Then more. Then more. I didn’t stop until the entire left side was gone. Scalp smooth. Cool air on bare skin.

I ran my hand over it. Left side bare. Right side long.

Now I matched.

I looked at the women. They looked at me.

I broke off a piece of the bench. Put it in my mouth. Chewed.

It didn’t taste like anything.

I swallowed.

Seventh night: I came back. Sat on the same bench. My bench now.

The left armrest was damaged from where I’d bitten it. The right side was still intact. Uneven.

I bit the right side. Then the left. Trying to make them match.

They didn’t match.

I kept trying.

Eighth night: my girlfriend saw my hair. Asked what happened. I said I wanted to try something different. She said it looked uneven. Offered to help me fix it, shave the other side to match.

I said no.

That night I went to the park. Four women now. I sat with them. We didn’t talk.

I worked on my bench. Chewing. Swallowing.

One of the women stood up. Walked past me. I saw her scalp up close. The bare side had small cracks in it. Thin lines, like dried mud. Not like a fresh shave. Not like mine.

I touched my own scalp. Smooth. Intact.

I didn’t match them yet.

Tenth night: I don’t count laps anymore. I just go to my bench.

The wood is rough. Dry. It scrapes my teeth. My jaw aches all day.

My dentist asked about my teeth. Said they looked worn down. Asked if I grind them at night.

I said yes.

She gave me a mouth guard. I don’t use it.

Fifteenth night: I woke up with hair on my pillow. Long strands from the right side. I thought maybe I pulled them out in my sleep.

But the next morning, there were more.

Twentieth night: My girlfriend said I’m losing weight. Asked if I’m eating enough. I said I’m fine.

The right side of my hair is thinner now. I can see scalp in places.

I touched the left side. The bare side. It doesn’t feel smooth anymore. There are small rough patches. Tiny cracks starting.

I went to the park. Sat on my bench. The left armrest is almost gone. I’ve been working on the right side, trying to even it out.

It never evens out.

Thirtieth night: I don’t remember what I ate yesterday. I think I had coffee.

My bench is almost gone. I’ll need a new one soon.

The right side of my hair is falling out in clumps now. I don’t cut it anymore. It falls on its own.

My scalp itches. Both sides. When I scratch, the skin feels dry. Cracked.

Last week, a new person showed up. Young guy on a bike. Riding laps. Over and over. I could hear him counting under his breath.

He kept staring at us. At our hair.

Tonight he came back with scissors.

I wanted to tell him: Don’t. That’s not how it works.

But I didn’t. I kept chewing.

The right side of my hair is almost gone now. In a few weeks, I’ll be even. Bare on both sides.

I wonder if I’ll stop then.

I don’t think I will.

My bench is almost gone. The wood is soft now. Splintered. Easy to bite. I can finish it soon.

Then I’ll find another one.

There are twelve benches in this park.

I have time.