It was a cheap hotel and a pair of unfamiliar beds, and I probably wouldn’t have slept very well under any circumstances anyhow. Whatever the reason, Ben and I were up in time to see the sunrise. I didn’t mind a bit. The sooner this was over, the better. While he was still in the shower I walked down the balcony to get a coffee in the hotel lobby. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and the asphalt wasn’t the blistering hot sheet it would be in an hour or so, but I wore my sandals anyway. I hadn’t seen any snakes last night but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The night clerk looked exhausted but kind, and I felt like buying her a coffee. I settled for exchanging smiles while I waited for the little door on the machine to open. The coffee was weak but the price was right. I knew I could choose between Ben complaining if I didn’t get him one too, or having him complain about how lousy it was. I opted for the latter and stepped back outside with just the one paper cup. Back outside our room, I opened the door and heard the shower still running. Ben always got dressed in the bathroom, I knew, so I left the room door open and stepped back outside to watch the sunrise. The car was parked just below us, and it’d be hot as an oven by the time Ben finished packing. I thought about running downstairs and opening the windows but I couldn’t be bothered. “Connecting with nature out there, are you?” Ben asked a few minutes later. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked without turning around. He sidled up beside me at the railing. “It’ll be awfully bright for driving.” “We can always stop for breakfast somewhere.” “Haven’t you already got yours there? Where’s mine, anyway?” “You hate instant coffee.” He laughed. “You know me too well, man.” He took a moment to look out at the dazzling rays. “Guess you know her real well, too.” “Yeah, she doesn’t like instant coffee either.” He laughed harder. I joined in but I guess I missed a beat. “Come on, Dan,” he said. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You know I’ll take good care of her, and you’re the one moving to France.” “Yeah, yeah, of course,” I said. “Ready to go?” “I’ll go pack,” he said. “You want to drive?” “Very funny.” “I’m serious, Dan.” He tossed me the keys. With my coffee in one hand, I was lucky to catch them with the other. That, he did find funny. It only took him a minute or so to throw everything in his suitcase and zip it up, and I still hadn’t quite finished the coffee when we shut the door behind us. Seeing I wasn’t done, he said, “Could you finish that before we go?” “Listen to you!” But I finished off the coffee as directed while he dropped off the key inside. I started the car and got the air conditioner running, and stepped back outside to wait for Ben. He must have stopped to chat up the night clerk, because he had that same bashful grin he’d always gotten from flirting since high school. “Let’s go find that diner,” he said. The first few minutes out on the road were quiet. It was a long drive to Lake MacPherson, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to be over now, or if I wished it were an even longer drive. Ben must have had similar thoughts, because he broke the silence with a memory that had been on my mind, too. “Remember the first summer you had your license?” he asked. “We had that big long road trip planned, but your parents wouldn’t even let us leave town?” “Didn’t we know they would say no!” I agreed. “I remember thinking I shouldn’t even ask, at least then I’d be able to think it might happen someday.” “And it did! I mean it is!” “Yeah.” I wondered if it ever got this hot in France. Probably not. There’s a reason their novels are always so depressing. “Come on, Dan, you had some great times with her!” Ben said. “You’ll always have those memories.” “You’re right, of course,” I said. “And French women smoke more than she does, don’t they?” Ben laughed. “I sure hope so! But they’re better on the curves!” I laughed, for real this time. It felt good. The elusive first diner appeared just as we were finally cooling off. I pulled off and suggested leaving the windows open, but Ben vetoed it. The place was about half full, and the greeter pointed us to a booth by the window. She was tall with a few extra pounds and red hair in a bun with a pencil stuck through it, a perfect combination of both our styles. “Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?” she asked. “Oh, you surely may…Julie!” Ben said with that same grin, after craning his neck to see her nametag. “Allrighty then!” she said, and spun on her heel to go get it. “Think she likes me,” Ben said. “Think she didn’t appreciate you staring at her boob,” I said. “Can I help it if that’s where her nametag is?” Ben replied. “Not all of us stayed in college and got all refined, Mister Feminist.” “Yeah, whatever,” I said, and turned my attention to the menu. I got waffles and scrambled eggs and the biggest orange juice they had. Ben got an omelette and hashbrowns, and offered to pay for my share. “Sending off gift, man,” he said as we were finishing up. “No, that’s fine!” I said. “I’m flush with my last paycheck from that place, you know.” “That place!” he repeated. “No love lost there, huh?” “It did push me to the point where I had the courage to buy that one way ticket to Paris, didn’t it?” “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Ben said. “Just…I feel like I ought to get you something, you know?” “Just take good care of her.” “You know I’ll do that, Dan!” Did I, really? We’d already gone over her likes and dislikes, what worked and what didn’t and what to avoid at all costs, and what to try first when she was acting up, and how to take good care of her. But did I really know if Ben was up to it? He was my oldest and best friend, but I’d learned things about her that I could only have learned through a long and intense relationship, and all through the long drive I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d forgotten something. Maybe it was just guilt that here I was running off to France, maybe I was forgetting something – several things, even! – that I just knew instinctively after all this time. Or was it that I was jealous and didn’t want him to know every last secret? Through the long and poignant drive to Lake Macpherson, I just couldn’t tell for sure. We both did our best to talk about other things – old friends, memories from high school, plans for the next big trip, which we were both sure would happen even if we had no idea when – but I couldn’t set my mind at rest about the whole thing. Rather than give him any excuse to accuse me of whining, I kept my mouth shut for long stretches. Ben didn’t seem to mind. He even took a nap for an hour or so after lunch, leaving me alone with my own poignant thoughts. It didn’t help and I was glad when he woke up. “How much farther?” he asked. “We’re almost there.” “Can I treat you to dinner at least, when we get there?” “If you insist. You really don’t have to, man.” But there was a nice bistro by the hotel, and when I saw the prices, I caved in. At least we got a male waiter. “So how long are you staying here, again?” he asked as we ate our steaks and salads. “Three days,” I said. “My folks think I’m still working through this week, so no long goodbyes.” Then I chuckled. “Not with them anyway.” “Dan, I promised, didn’t I? I’ll take care of her!” I nodded. “Thanks.” “How’s the wine?” he asked. “Great,” I said. “Sorry you can’t have any.” “Don’t be,” he said. “Better safe than sorry. Remember Jimmyjim?” “God, that sure got the point across, didn’t it?” I nodded and did take a moment to remember Jimmyjim. Back in ninth grade, our school had brought in a speaker who’d killed his son, Jimmyjim, in a drunk driving accident. Heavyhanded as hell, but it had worked: neither of us had ever gotten behind the wheel after even one beer. The sun was setting as we finished our dessert and Ben paid the bill. As we stepped outside, we must have looked like two guys just enjoying a decadent meal, no sign of the goodbye we were in for now. I considered inviting him to crash in my hotel room and head home in the morning, but I didn’t really want that. He was my best friend, but I wanted this over with. “Well, I ought to get home just about ten,” he said as we lingered on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. “Anyone there I can say hi to for you?” “Not my folks, that’s for sure. Remember…” “I know, Dan, they think you’re still working and don’t have time to visit. Ain’t like I want to have to see them either, you know.” “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” “Well, I guess I’ll be off, my friend,” he said.

We shook hands, and I turned to head back to the hotel. “I’ll email you from France,” I said. “Uh, Dan?” I stopped in my tracks. “Oh!” I laughed and shook my head. “Didn’t I tell you I was having a hard time letting go!” “I know, man, but I told you I’d take good care of her.” “I know you will, Ben. Of course you will.” With that, I reluctantly drew the keys out of my pocket. “Here you go. Did I tell you she likes an oil change every six months?” “At least five times, Dan. And rotate the tires then, too.” “Right, and –” “Dan! I’ve got it! Have a safe trip!” “Thanks,” I said. “You too.” And I turned back toward the hotel. I just couldn’t watch him drive off in her. It was a beautiful hotel room and I was feeling strangely relieved, now that it was over. Relieved, but strung out from the road. I took a long bath. When I got dried off, I was feeling refreshed rather than tired, so I put a fresh change of clothes on and set off for the hotel bar. “House cocktail for you?” asked the barmaid as I took a seat by the window. “We call it a MacPherson Mimosa.” “Sounds great,” I said. “Please.” “Certainly, sir.” She poured me a glass of water and was off to make the drink, and I turned and looked out the window at the full moon shining on the lake. La lune, le lac…I had three days to brush up my French and no way to go anywhere else if I wanted to. I sipped the ice water and smiled.


Content warning: Child loss Another apple disintegrates under the weight of Evelyn's boots. It is the third one in the five minutes that they've been in the orchard, and it does nothing to quell her nagging suspicion that this whole excursion is a mistake. The mushy fruit clings to the sole of her shoe like a beggar, but she refuses to fall any farther behind. Already ten paces ahead, her wife, Gloria, whips through the row of apple trees with the same pinballesque efficiency she uses when stuffing bills and magazines and credit card offers into the mailboxes on her route. Her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, carelessly snatch apples from their branches. Gloria's dark hair, longer than Evelyn likes, flows past her shoulders. In the glare of the Illinois sunshine, Evelyn can discern all the strands of gray that weren't there when they visited this orchard a year ago. Of course, a year ago they'd also had Adam with them. His laughter, delicate and bright as a new Hot Wheels car; the pitter-patter of his feet against the grass; the way he perched on Gloria's shoulders, his legs wrapped around her neck like a hug, as he clutched at the apples high in the trees. Evelyn tries not to think about that, tries to shove those thoughts in the crawl space of her mind along with the bruising and the nosebleeds and the hospital visits and the leukemia. She reminds herself that they're here today to enjoy themselves. "What do you think of this one?" Gloria asks, turning to Evelyn. In her hand sits a lopsided circle the color of blood, large and lustrous. The apple picking bag that's strapped to her shoulders like a harness, already a third of the way full, resembles a baby sling. Though thankful for the words—they've spoken no more than necessary today, no more than to begrudgingly agree to fulfill their promise to come to the apple orchard—Evelyn cannot bring herself to look at her wife, the apple, the bag. She pivots and places a hand above her eyes, squinting until she can see nothing but a dim bar of sunlight, and says, "Looks good." Her throat is dry and her voice comes out like cheap sandpaper. "I think so too. How are you doing over there?" "I'm doing," Evelyn says. Leaves rustle as Gloria picks another apple. The sound of it falling and knocking against the others in her bag is like bone on bone. Evelyn grinds her teeth and turns back to her own tree. Its arms overflow with blood-red offerings. The sugar-sweet aroma churns her stomach. "Ev, your bag is empty," Gloria says, her voice suddenly close, and Evelyn startles. When did Gloria get behind her? How long has she been staring at this tree? She looks down at her bag, at a loss for words and apples.

Gloria says, "Here," plucks an apple from her own bag, and tosses it into Evelyn's. "You have to start somewhere." Evelyn murmurs a noncommittal thank you. It's enough for Gloria, who turns on her heels and continues down the lane. Evelyn waits a few seconds before releasing the apple from its baggy prison and dropping it in front of her. This time, she makes sure not to disintegrate it. *** If she wants to, Evelyn can conjure up the image of Adam in the Subaru, his tiny face aglow in the rearview mirror as they passed the apple orchard, his voice as high and feverish as the Elmo doll in his lap. They were heading home from the airport after a trip to Disneyland, and Adam was in no hurry to let the magic end. Jet lag anchored Evelyn's hands to the steering wheel and her body to the leather seat. But then Gloria nodded her approval, twisting in her seat and eyeing the retreating orchard, vetoing fatigue, so Evelyn U-turned and the three of them watched the plantation expand through the windshield. Adam bounced around the orchard like a feral child. He sprinted up and down rows of hedges and trees and ran his fingers across all the fruit on the low-slung branches. More than once, he launched Elmo into the air on a mission to retrieve a treetop apple. A few onlookers shook their heads at him. Evelyn turned bright crimson under the weight of their stony judgment, but Gloria simply shrugged and said, "Hey, boys will be boys." Still, Evelyn had fun despite herself. She clapped when Gloria gave him a piggyback ride. She encouraged him to "Reach for the sky!" in her best Woody impersonation. She laughed when he grabbed a bruised apple from the ground, chomped, and the juice dribbled like a trail of tears down his chin. Toward the end of their time in the orchard, as they were going to weigh their fruit, Adam stepped the wrong way onto a fallen apple and pitched forward. Evelyn whirled around when she heard his cry and watched the event unfold as if in slow-motion: Elmo flying from the boy's grip, Adam arcing his body to the side to land on his sleeveless arm instead of his face, his shoe, perpetually untied, dislodging itself from his foot. He collapsed on the ground with a thud. To his credit, the boy neither cried nor fussed, not when Gloria sat him upright and rubbed his back. Not when Evelyn traced her finger lightly down his arm, asking "Does this hurt? How about now?" Not even when, later that night, as Evelyn was weaving crust into a lattice for her apple pie, she questioned the mottled purple bruise by Adam's shoulder as he circled a date in red magic marker on the calendar and made plans for next September's apple picking adventure. She can conjure up all of this at a moment's notice, if she wants to. The problem is, she doesn't. *** To Evelyn, the thirty minutes they've been in the orchard feels like thirty hours. Her apple bag is still empty while Gloria, in the next row over, resembles a mother kangaroo, her pouch poking out over her stomach, pregnant with life. "How're you doing over there, Ev?" she shouts over the thicket of trees. There are small openings in between each tree that reveal a sliver of the other lane. Evelyn can see her wife through the gap, knows she already has the answer to her own question. "I'm doing," Evelyn replies, but her heart isn't in it, hasn't been for a while. "I can't wait to taste some of your apple pie," Gloria says. The rustle of leaves echoes as a branch snaps back into place. "I might even have it with some hot fudge and crushed nuts." Evelyn recognizes this statement as call-and-response. "And I might leave you for Jodie Foster if you do" is the answer Gloria wants to hear, a reference to their first date at Evelyn's house so long ago. Back then, after Evelyn had said that, Gloria abruptly dropped her fork, leaned across the table, and kissed Evelyn, breaking the seal of her lips with her tongue. When she pulled away, the first thing she said was, "I'd like to see Jodie Foster do that." The memory passes through Evelyn's mind as though it were simply something she'd seen once in a movie or a dream, something that happened to actors, imaginary people, anyone but her. Gloria stands on the other side of the trees, her fingers grazing a waxy red apple, and stares at Evelyn. She is waiting for an answer. Evelyn's feet move before her mouth can. She speedwalks down the lane, away from the spot where Gloria is calling after her, bouncing words off her back. She goes four lanes over to a spot where the gaps in the trees only reveal the next two rows. Unsurprisingly, this section of the orchard also exclusively contains apples the same shade as blood. But it also contains quiet, which is sweeter than any fruit could ever hope to taste. A little while before or after Adam died in March—Evelyn can never remember which, in the blurry haze of the timeline—the doctor said that only five percent of children, at the most, got unlucky with leukemia treatment. That was the word he'd used, Evelyn remembers that much: "unlucky." But that isn't something she ever wanted to know. What Evelyn would like to know, what she asked herself today when she crawled out of bed and saw the red magic marker circle on the calendar, what she's been asking herself almost every day since spring, is if he had been sick even before then. Before he fell on the apple and bruised his pale skin. Before the constant calls from the preschool and the blood-crusted T-shirts. What she wants to know is when it started. She already knows how it ends. That's what she's thinking about when the sound of laughter wafts through the lane. The leaves quake like someone is trying to uproot the trees. A little boy pokes his head through the opening as though it's a secret entrance. Evelyn steps back and presses her empty apple bag against her stomach. Somewhere a lane or two over, a woman is yelling a name: "Conrad! Conrad, where are you?" "Shh," says the boy to Evelyn, bringing a finger to his mouth. He winks conspiratorially like an accomplice. He can't be any older than six, with a flop of blond hair. "I'm hiding from my mom." Evelyn says nothing. The shouting gets louder, the voice more shaky. The boy retreats into the interstice of the trees just as his mother appears at the end of the lane. Blonde with her hair in a ponytail, probably a decade younger than Evelyn, late twenties if she had to guess, her tone unmistakably laced with panic and desperation: "Conrad, please! This isn't funny anymore!" She looks like a bobblehead, craning her neck as if it were spring-loaded. When she looks at Evelyn, even from fifteen feet away, the tears and fears in her eyes are unmistakable. Something stirs inside Evelyn, some unspoken maternal bond. She lifts her finger and points to the spot where Conrad is waiting like a ninja, eyes closed, chest barely swaying with the rhythm of his breathing. The mother steps forward tentatively, like Evelyn might be luring her into a trap, but when Conrad's close enough to see, she lets a few tears stain her cheeks and mouths out her thanks. Conrad groans when his mother yanks him from his hiding spot. Green leaves litter his hair. "Aw, man! How did you find me?" is all he thinks to ask. He isn't concerned that his mother thought she lost him. To Evelyn's surprise, Conrad's mother drops to her knees and hugs her son. Her body rocks with the sobs of relief. Any panic, desperation, anger she had is gone. Her son is safe again. He is accounted for. He is alive. "You're okay," she keeps saying, running her hands over his hair. "You're okay, you're okay." Rain clouds drift past the sun, blanketing the three of them in shade. Something fragile inside Evelyn is threatening to shatter. This time she doesn't just speedwalk out of the lane, she dashes. She can't be here anymore. She must look as crazy as Conrad's mother, running past rows of apple trees like a bobblehead. She knows what to look for: plaid vest, camo pants, black boots. Why is it so hard to find her wife? Evelyn realizes with a start that Gloria drove today, that she's got the keys with her. She imagines Gloria jumping behind the wheel, replacing her spot in the passenger's seat with a child-sized lump of produce. After minutes of running, she goes to the first unoccupied lane she sees and slumps against a tree. Throwing a hand over her eyes, she tries to regulate her ragged breathing. The sun and the blue sky are gone, overshadowed by fat gray clouds. Something soft and light and wet pricks her arm. "There you are." She lowers her arm only slightly to see Gloria standing there. The look on her face, like her tone of voice, gives nothing away. She is still carrying her apple bag, which is almost full. "It's time to go." Evelyn hears the desperation in her voice but is helpless to stanch it. Another raindrop hits her face. "I can't do this anymore." Something flashes across Gloria's face that Evelyn doesn't recognize. Gloria tilts her head to the side, as if she's seeing her own wife for the first time. "No, I'm not ready to leave just yet," Gloria says. Evelyn slowly rises to her feet. "Well, I am. I've been ready since the moment we got here."

"Trust me, I can tell," Gloria says. Her voice shakes like Conrad's mother's. "Can you just try to enjoy yourself? Please?" The last word comes out as a whisper. "No," Evelyn says, before the word please gets a chance to breathe. "We need to go. Now." "I'm sorry," Gloria says as she rips an apple from a nearby branch, "but I'm having fun here. I'm having a blast." "Don't do that," Evelyn retorts. "Don't act like you're having a good time when you're not." Gloria tilts her head the other way and stares into Evelyn's eyes. "At least I'm trying." Evelyn says nothing. Somewhere a few lanes over, Conrad is shouting: "Hey, hey! Watch what I can do!" "I'm trying to keep things normal," Gloria says, quieter. "That's all." Evelyn shakes her head. "You don't get it. It's not normal. It's never going to be normal again. Not like it was." Gloria tucks a lock of hair behind her ear as the drizzle comes down on them. Beads of rain gather on the apples in her bag and slide off slowly. "And I didn't even wanna come to this stupid place to begin with," Evelyn adds. "In fact, I wouldn't have either if not for," but she can't bring herself to mention the calendar in the kitchen, or the boy who wrote on it. "That's the problem, Evelyn." When was the last time Gloria used her full name? She can't remember. "I've tried to be patient. Really, I have. But you never want to go anywhere or do anything anymore." Though she knows it's true, in the heat of the moment, Evelyn can't help herself from striking back. "Well, what about you, huh? You're acting like everything is fine. Like everything's okay. You're acting like he isn't dead." It occurs to her, already too late, that this comment is a mistake. She can count on one hand the number of times they've broached the subject of Adam in the past six months. Evelyn knows it was a low blow. But wasn't she the one who bore the brunt of the in vitro fertilization? Wasn't she the one who refused the epidural, the one who writhed and panted and cursed in that bleach-white hospital bed five years ago? She and Adam have a bond that Gloria can't possibly understand. She believes that should count for something.

Evelyn says, "You're acting like you know everything, like you know how I feel, but you don't. You weren't the one who had him." Gloria blinks once. Her eyelids don't come up all the way on the return trip. She speaks slowly, deliberately: "No, but that doesn't mean I didn't love him." And she turns on her heel and stalks off. She gets to the end of the lane and vanishes behind an armada of trees. Thick raindrops pelt Evelyn's body as she waits for Gloria to return. She doesn't. Gloria is gone. Above Evelyn, a ripe red McIntosh apple hangs off the end of a vine. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches up to grab it. When it's firmly in her grasp, she hurls it at the ground and disintegrates it under the weight of her boot. Then she drops to her knees and rummages through the wreckage until she discovers what she's looking for. She finds five in total. The brown apple seeds, small as grains of rice, weigh heavy in her hand as she walks to the end of the orchard lane. She picks an empty spot of grass. She rips out as many blades as she can before plunging her hands into the wet earth. When she decides the hole is deep enough, she buries each seed, one by one, in the ground. Then she replaces the soil with her dirty fingernails and steps back. It'll be perfect, she thinks. Just give it time. She's creating something here, a legacy, a future. Something beyond herself. Something that will have a fair chance at life. She makes a promise to check it every year, every month, to watch its growth. She'll mark it on her calendar in red if she has to, if that's what it takes. Here now in the autumn rain, Evelyn can conjure up almost everything clearly in her mind's eye, if she wants to: years from now, the blistering sun, the spring-green leaves, and the tree—this very apple tree that she planted and grew all by herself—with its twiggy arms outstretched as if offering a hug, a sweet red embrace. She can feel the breeze on her skin, hear the sound of a child laughing in the distance. The only thing she cannot see, not for the life of her, when she turns her head to the side, is if Gloria is with her or if, once again, she'll be standing here all alone.


   “Did you see that?”    “Let’s see,” the director said, drawing out the long ‘ee’ vowel. “An anomalous source of gravity outside a galaxy with no perceptible source… Hm. I’d say you hit another patch of dark matter.”    Dr. Cassius Langdon twisted his mouth slightly, cogitating. “Considering observations over the past three months, there’s been a noticeable uptick in the gravity in these specified areas.”    “Uptick? You mean there's a density of matter that's unaccountable?”    “Well, yes, but I don't know if it's something unaccounted for.”    “Then you're questioning whether it's preexisting or not.”  Langdon ignored the tacit dismissals. “Possibly. On the other hand, the amount of matter is too thin to be quantified as an extragalactic dust cloud for example, but,” and he zoomed in on the depth of field, “we've detected ionization which indicates a high-energy collision, an outgassing of sorts, in this case a stream of hadrons slamming into a cloud of mostly hydrogen gas that’s only getting bigger as we speak.”    “And still no proof of an energy source, even if whatever's responsible could be hiding somewhere behind it.”    “The cloud isn’t dense enough to hide anything that massive, despite the noticeable elevation in gravity.”    The director looked circumspect, still facing the image. “Then where do you suppose this outgassing came from? It doesn’t seem to make any sense if you ask me.”    “It doesn’t if we rely on conventional logic. Now, check this out,” he said, scrolling to five inserts containing images inside and outside of the Milky Way. “The same phenomenon is happening in these isolated examples. All time-lapsed for your convenience.” The images looked the same, but the gravitometric data changed.  “The registry's increasing alright. Interesting. How much extra mass can amount for that kind of change without some identifiable source?”    “That's what I've been trying to figure out.”    “Yet, you say that something similar is happening in all these disparate areas.”    “According to analysis, there seems to be a connection. This region here,” Langdon pointed to one of the inserts, “is clearly within bounds of our galaxy, and it would make sense to attribute the leakage to an undetected attractor. After all, anything could be hidden in the dust lanes along the galactic plane, not to mention the hundreds of billions of stellar objects, yet all analysis claims this phenomena is completely isolated. Nothing detected within several parsecs of this quadrant could help explain the rising mass we’ve been seeing.”    “So, what you’re telling me is that all this quantum output is coming from nowhere essentially.”    “What evidence do we have to the contrary?”    The director’s expression remained impassive, but there was a mark of hesitancy. Langdon took note.    “It doesn't mean we'll never find a plausible answer. What do you suggest?”    Langdon closed his eyes, praying to himself his career wasn’t hinging on a crackpot theory that could be explained faster than he could hold on to his job. “I collaborated my readings with some of the crewmen, and drawing upon our initial guesswork,” he said as the director glanced disapprovingly at the rest of the staff in the room, “there’s a strong chance––and there’s no certifiable evidence apart from theory for the moment––that the leakage stems from a possible rift in space itself.”    “And so, it bleeds into our universe, as if if I poked a water balloon with an awl.”    “That’s my conclusion…pro tem, of course.”    “From where?” The director flicked his shoulders    Langdon lightly shrugged. “I wouldn't know. From another universe, perhaps?”    “The question, though, is why? Wouldn’t universes be self-contained?”    “Not necessarily. Imagine one so over-viscous with matter, by osmosis, it begins to unload all its excesses into the next available vacuum.” He languidly put his hands up. “It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense until you’ve burned through so many possibilities within the realm of known physics, that you’re left with what’s lying around in the lunatic binge.”    “It would be the bottom of the barrel for sure. That is if there are other universes.”    “You’re right. I won’t belabor the point, but for now we'll leave that option on the table until further evaluation. Chances are against it anyway,” he said, gently tipping his head to the side, then in sotto, “But I hope not…”    “Rather extraneous. This hairbrained theory of yours might not sit well with the scientific communities.”    “New ideas never do––” Langdon saw the way the director was knitting his brow. “By the way, am I on thin ice for this?”    The director made a fleeting smirk. “It depends on how long you wanna skate.” And with that quip he left in a frustrated huff.    With his reputation on tentative grounds, he tried to reassure himself and mulled, Then if I’m right, at least that’ll put dark matter in the bag!    The following day, Langdon was called into the administrator’s office. When he ambled in, he was met with the director, along with a video chat filled with the likes of the Astronomical Society as well as a few municipal bureaucrats spread across the back wall. What they all had in common was that they were facing Langdon from their respective screens. The looks on each face were plaintive at best. Reluctantly, he sat himself down at the behest of the Director’s wave of the hand.    “Apparently,” began the Director, “we’ve got a few guests interested in a few of your findings.”    “I can certainly see that.” Langdon knew what he was in for but remained steadfast in his convictions despite the Director's smugness.    “Well, Mr. Langdon,” an elderly member of the council for the astronomical society barked, “if we aren’t here to be entertained by the idea of two separate universes crashing into one another in a drunken incident, perhaps we can get down to business.”    “Well, sir, in this scenario, alcohol may not be the culprit.”    “Funny. So, you claim you have a tawdry explanation behind all this, especially when it attempts to explain dark matter?”    Landon kept his professional mien, despite hiding a tiresome sigh. “Look. Every region studied over extended periods of time showed a steady rise in subatomic particles affecting the local gravity. The gravitometers detected the change on every instance, the invisibility of which can account for most of what we perceive as dark matter.” He briefly craned his head up and noticed the rows of electronically transmitted faces glowering at him, a whole wall of them. “Some of these changes can be attributable to larger influences, namely galactic clusters and black holes within close proximity. The remaining cases, however, were clearly absent of environing tidal forces, and appeared to be growing on their own––something like parthenogenesis, but on a cosmic scale; that or someone left the faucet running. Is all this matter coming from nowhere? Yes and no. Yes, it seems matter is spontaneously generating without any visible means. But another, rather contradictory, answer sheds light on the theory I’ve been postulating––”    “Which involves a second universe,” the council member inferred with a shade of scoffing.    From this moment onward, Langdon accepted rejection and even termination if the Astronomical Society was too reluctant to accept his theories even tangentially. He was open to criticism if it were based on sound research rather than censure.    “They could have been adjacent to one another, relatively speaking. One universe is overloaded while ours is stuck on the throes of entropy, having expended its capacity for stellar formation though constant inflation. The other universe notices the contrast, and through osmosis, dumps its excesses on us.”    “If that’s the case,” said a feminine voice, “when does the leakage stop?”    “Good question. I have no idea. Until we’re osmotically satisfied.”    “Director,” she continued, “I’d like to see Langdon’s models right away.”    “Granted! All the files containing his step-by-step procedures are readily accessible for just such an occasion.”    The records were transferred instantly. Within minutes, another cosmologist addressed Langdon, but he seemed hesitant in the number of pauses in his sentences.    “From…the information provided…and I don’t see any way you could have cheated the results,” he skipped a breath, “it would mean, if I’m not mistaken, that…both universes would be in the process of merging, maybe even cannibalizing one another.”    “As if we’re in the process of gradually being smothered,” another who shared the research added.    Langdon thought it over for a second. “Not necessarily. The bleeding could be a constant process, and not just in our universe, but many others. In fact, there could be a host of universes, a multiverse if you will, where if one swells beyond its means to produce matter, another denser universe fills in the vacuum. It’s all postulation, but––”    “Such as white holes.”    “That’s definitely a possibility.”    “Then why haven’t we detected any?” the chairman of the society said. “Do you know how much energy something like that would produce?”    “It could be that they’re too small or they’re facing away from our point of view. The same applies to active cores of galaxies.”    The Director swiveled around in his chair and faced away from Langdon into a profile silhouetted against the giant screen. He added addressing the others, “I'll tell you what. What if I tell you we'll give this another shot. Let’s say a month. If we keep finding the results comporting with Langdon’s findings, which seem to be consistent with our current records, it’ll be a safe bet to continue funding this little vanity project. If not, we pull the plug…and work on something worthwhile.” He fanned out his hands and slowly turned towards Langdon as if placing the burden of proof on him.    The committee murmured assent.    “Good. You hear that, Langdon? One month.    Langdon's eyes darted around the room in nervous tension and nodded. “Yes. That will suffice.”    That evening, Langdon was reviewing the days notes when his cell phone chimed out a tune. He glanced over and saw an unrecognizable number. Wondering who was calling him so late, he tapped the “receive” button. It better not have been solicitors, be brooded.    “Dr. Cassius Langdon?”    “Speaking.” Who else other than someone work-related would address him by his professional formality.    “I don’t think we officially introduced ourselves.” The female voice was oddly familiar. “My name is Dr. Denise Spirou from the Astronomical Society. We briefly exchanged a few words today during the meeting with the Director.”    Langdon’s eyes popped open. Composing himself, he said, “The pleasure’s mine. What brings you here at this hour?” He felt himself shiver; thankful no one was present at the kitchen table to witness it.    “I received your number from the Director himself just as you left. It wasn’t very professional for me to ask, but I needed to speak with you on a matter of urgency.” Langdon froze in place. “First of all, I want to apologize for the reproof you went through today. During the past few years, we’ve been under constant pressure to avoid subjects considered too far-fetched. I’m sure you can relate.”    “Well, it’s been a problem. Our government has been dead set on facts––”    “We know. But there’s a more pressing matter at hand. We were corroborating data from several observatories, and by chance, we ran across a random patch of sky that was a dead ringer for dark matter.”    “What did you find?”    Langdon heard a soft hitter on the other end of the line. “In regard to the salient universe theory, we found something that may have verified your claim. Now, keep in mind it’s the first time we’ve seen something like this, plus, it's an image that's still up for further review.”    “So, you just went ahead and finished my job.” “Research is shared, my friend. The object in question was radiating a torrent of energy, everything from ‘a’ to ‘z’ along the electromagnetic spectrum, far more than any event horizon. It stood out like a squeaky wheel, which is how we discovered it.” “Wouldn’t we have discovered something like that already?” “Like you said about active galaxies being edgewise, it was facing eighty degrees away from our plane, and we saw the secondary effects, as faint as they were. There was a hint of bow shock collecting the inner edge of the plume, yet there was no stream coming from the other end, only in one direction. In addition, that jet must have been going so fast, it outpaced the clouds of matter left in its wake.” “You’re kidding!” “Dr. Langdon, I think we found your white hole.” He was stunned, yet skeptical. “That’s too good to be true…but––but there’s one problem with that.” “Please explain.” “There doesn’t seem to be anything like that in the smaller regions where plumes of hadrons have been appearing; no bow shock, no lensing, nothing.” A period of silence followed with the hum of the laptop standing out. He glanced at a ludicrous article on his laptop reporting on numerous hauntings across the world.

Rubbish, he said to himself, yet he contemplated his own predicament. “So, there’s a chance this salience uses more than one avenue of outflow?” she said, breaking the silence. “I was just going over it before you called. According to the latest analysis of one particular region within our galaxy, it seems atomic and subatomic matter have been spontaneously generating as if being squeezed out from somewhere else like a sponge.” “And you just came across this fact now?” “Yep. And the quanta appear to immediately fuse into matter upon entering our universe as if it’s being squeezed from a place so dense that the kinetic energy within prevents any form of coalescence. “If you so happen to be correct, that means another universe is literally merging with ours! That would amount to a full-blown cosmic cataclysm. I don’t think it bodes well for our future.” “Interesting,” said the director, propping his chin and slowly swiveling his chair side to side. “So, it seems the universe is now bursting at the seams.” He splayed his hands in a show of irony. “It might be a while before we’re affected. Things in space take a while to travel those vast distances.” “I’m not sure now,” Langdon added with a pensive calm. “We’re seeing this everywhere…whether as violent ejections from while holes or interdimensional bleed-through. It could be enveloping the Earth as far as we know.” “I didn’t see any of your observations aimed at our own planet.” “They don’t need to be.” “Don’t you think you’re taking this cosmic drama a little too personally, especially since everything’s on paper at the moment?” “Unfortunately, the models indicate otherwise. Our region within known space has become a dumping ground for dark matter, more like untold transfers of mass. In the long run, it will definitely show a promising future for a star-forming universe rather than having it simply burn out, but as far as we’re concerned, there’s a high likelihood that we’ll be incinerated in this act of rebirth.” Before he could answer the Director, a sudden chill spread throughout his body, and he became limp. The Director jumped from his desk over to Langdon who was leaning over the side of his chair buttressed only by the armrest. “Dr. Langdon, are you alright?” There was no response. “Cassius? Can you hear me?” The words trailed off in a dreamlike echo. Then a voice came, louder than any other in the room. It was unfamiliar and emerged from nowhere as the mysterious leakage in space had done. The resonance soothed his body and emotions––and his soul. He understood the words with flawless perfection, but he swore that they were not relayed to him in any syntactic sense. We are the tides…the tides of ages past…and cycles to come…seeping from world to world…We…we have survived…we will survive…No elements can kill us…stardust is our fodder… The words made no sense to Langdon. Attempting to communicate, he was abruptly cut off. Listen, mortal! We can help you. No tide can be undone, but your world is imperiled…you are feeble…we are not. However, you can become us…to live with us…to reign with us…to become a tide… The realization dawned upon Langdon. These tides, as they call themselves, must have escaped into the current universe, seeping in through the rifts in the cosmos, but it was an impossibility for any matter to pass through in atomic form. They had to have been creatures of energy, perhaps quanta, and from what was said, it was apparent they overan all the universes they fell into. We cannot reverse our course through the ages…we roam by chance…but we can save you from the fate of our worlds colliding… He woke up in a hospital bed. The cardio-pulse bleeped in the background and he was presently alone. A nurse walked in and patted the side of his bed relieved he was conscious again. He needed to recuperate before he could ask questions, despite his astonishment at what just happened to him. The television above was on and he lifted his head to see what it was. A news channel prattled on about a series of disturbances reported from individuals across the nation. Grabbing the remote, he was moments from switching it off when the correspondent said, "...and still no word on who or what these mysterious hauntings called 'tides' were that eyewitnesses reported. Experts say there's an outbreak of schizophrenia, but others remain skeptical, claiming identical information provided by each person was not a coincidence…" and on she went. Langdon froze in horror. It all made sense. Humanity was being warned that their time was short, and that the only thing that could be done was to listen to this sepulchral message. He also wondered if humanity would listen.


TW: suicidal ideation Warning: This is not a tale for children or sweet old ladies from a bygone era. I don’t know if it’s even a story, more like a blip on the line of history. But for me, it was everything. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut to the heart of it. holy shit I’m in the pit This was my first poem about my postpartum depression- pretty epic, right?! No, I’ll be the first to admit it was completely depressing, but you’ve gotta admire its brevity and unambiguous message- I was stuck. While my daughter cheered “Paw Patrol is on a roll!” I laid in bed silently chanting my poem like a mantra. The bitter words flowed through my veins until they seeped from my pores and funneled out my nostrils with each tedious exhalation. It was my self-fulfilling truth. My bleak reality. I totally could have used a techy, English speaking pup to rescue me, but from what? My bed? I was more confused than Mayor Goodway, more helpless than Chickaletta. Please forgive my post recovery humor when broaching such a serious topic. I’m like a one year old with a smash cake, gorging myself on giggles and the sweet things in life. I just can’t stop. But I’ll do it- I’ll swim against the currents of my brain to access those memories locked away in the murky depths. So cold down there… Welcome to my world. SEPTEMBER “I’m hungwy, Mommy!” She bounces around my head, which is already pounding with a headache, and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet. I tuck under my pillow and press it tightly against my ears, desperate to muffle her high pitched voice. “Pwease, Mommy?” I open my eyes and peek out. Her round blue eyes sparkle and watch me curiously. Frick. She’s so cute, but I hate her so much. I used up all my patience when she came into our bedroom six times during the night. I drag myself out of bed like I’m an old woman- the weight of the night heavy, the drudgery of the coming day oppressive. Another day to get through. Then another tortuous night… just like every other night of the past two years. I used to play tennis. I used to paint. I used to smile freely, especially at strangers or when I didn’t know what else to do. I was a naïve idiot. Wall, tell me- Who am I? My head still spins from revolving roles: teacher, nurse, referee to the crazy blonde creatures now sleeping in peace. Finally, I am free to just be me, and yet- I find myself here, staring at the wall. OCTOBER I sit on the bench at the end of my bed and tie my shoes. We’re going to a pumpkin patch, woohoo. Wait, what day is it? I snatch my phone from my purse and hit the home button, and the truth glows green. The anniversary of my dad’s death. I don’t usually think about it, but today it steals my breath. I stare at my shoes and think about sitting on the front porch with him. His body was already withered from cancer, literally eaten up with it from the inside out. It will never feel fair… I took a picture of our feet together, the rolling pastures in the background. His leather loafers. My bare feet. Our matching ankles. you left this world and you left a hole in my heart (in my heart) so I left this town walking backward clutching flowers now I travel to a new place with this same face (but I don’t even know who I am anymore) these eyes look at the mirror and they’re sure that it’s a mask please don’t ask (because I don’t even know who I am anymore) do you think I could be someone else something new is it true that I’m me cuz I’m not free I’m walking backward (backward) NOVEMBER I hobble across the bedroom, the mysterious pain slicing under my kneecap again. I grimace as I put minimal weight on it, and my husband frowns at me. “Aren’t you meeting someone at the park for a play date today?” “Yeah, but I just canceled. I can’t walk that far.” She won’t care; she hardly knows me. And my daughter won’t know the difference because I didn’t tell her the plan in case it fell through. Secretly, I’m relieved. Small talk in the preschool hallways is so draining, no, painful . We moved cross country three months ago with a two year old and a three month old baby. No one else is a military family like ours, and they all know we’re moving again in less than a year so they have little incentive to be my friend. I don’t blame them. I grieve the loss of my friends of four years in Georgia, our church, and my family that lived around the state. And all the ones in South Carolina, for that matter, where we lived for three years before that. This place feels cold and foreign. I don’t have the energy to start over. Yesterday or a lifetime ago? I can’t reach it, so there’s the answer. Fragments are all that I can find. Throw them into order, but they scramble again. Colors, enough to make me smile. Pain, that cuts me anew. Fragments, floating around, that I bump into occasionally. Long ago won’t let go. DECEMBER Thin gray light slants through the blinds. I know I should get out some play dough for her or set up a tea party or something fabulous like good moms do. Instead, she’s watching tv while I lay in bed. I’ve never felt this tired in my whole life. It’s like I just ran a marathon and no one gave me a banana after. Those jerks. The baby is napping, thank goodness. At least one of them likes to sleep. I lay here for episode after episode after episode. she stares through the mist motionless JANUARY A bit of sun peeked through this afternoon. I should have seized the opportunity to get outside with the kids. I could have pushed them in the stroller and walked to the park, but I started shaking and got dizzy as another fever came on. I keep getting infections. I’m falling apart. The world outside, so far from reach- an invisible barrier between. If I were to walk to the window and place palm upon cool glass, I would experience, at least touch, the last partition that separates me from endless motion, from life and color and change. But I can’t move beyond that which holds me hostage with cords and tethers that burn my consciousness, searing stripes on my soul that remind me- I am trapped in this scorched wasteland. The barrier is ME. FEBRUARY “Babe, you gotta talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how,” he says.

I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know. I don’t know. You break the silence when you clear your throat, shifting nervously in your chair. I should say something, but the words stick in my mouth- no, they never even made it that far. Half ideas slowly swirl in the dark recesses of my mind, out of reach. I try to look at you, but the distance is too great, the connection too painful. I stare at your feet. MARCH Wooden blinds. Giant dressers. A soft bench at the end of the bed. They’re more real than I am. Definitely have more purpose. My life is pure misery. I just want it to stop. I don’t know what that means. But I want it to stop. I want to be gone. I want this to end.

We’re talking in circles, you and I. These words, conflicting words, cut me like a knife. I know I drew first blood, but you, YOU thrust the blade in to the hilt and pull it out for sport, cheering wildly as my blood surges onto the sand. I’m losing it… The arena closes in on me, and I know I’ve lost the battle with my mind. APRIL Everyone else is asleep, except me. I stare at the ceiling in terror as muscle spasms dance across my body. Toe. Cheek. Knee. Bicep. Throat. Calf. Lip. Quad. What the fuck is wrong with me? Do I have ALS or some strange degenerative disease coming on? They say to new moms, “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” But I never sleep anymore. I just lay here and endure each incredibly long moment. Darkness swallows light until the full moon rises, promising a change. MAY I’ve been quietly struggling to breathe for the past two hours, but now I’m scared for my life, which is ironic. I dig my fingernails into my husband’s arm as air wheezes through my constricted throat. He turns over and looks at me in alarm. My head throbs from straining to get air, and my arms hang limp and numb at my sides. He tries to help me, and together we panic. Can I just cry now to make it all better? No. The tears won’t come, and they couldn’t cleanse my mind of its distress, anyways. The serrated edges of my hopelessness have already done too much damage. This knowledge adds another weight to my heart. It sags deeper within me, inky black and constricted. I feel the toxic bitterness seeping out of it into every fiber of my being. Immobilization takes hold. I CAN’T DO THIS ANY MORE JUNE “Have you thought about harming yourself?” asks my online counselor. We’re propped against pillows in bed, my husband sitting in on this session. I guess you could call this intervention. I’m a coward, scared to admit the horrors that play on repeat through my mind, so I beat around the bush. “I mean, not exactly. But I don’t want to be here… I want to be somewhere else.” But it’s enough. She says there’s no shame in getting help. She gives us numbers to call. A suicide hotline. Her number. She makes me write an escape plan so I can follow those steps when I’m thinking about IT. I’m raging inside, but my lips press tightly shut. Breaking News: DAM BROKE. The words spill forth rapidly til energy ebbs to peace. JULY I flop on the most comfortable bed in the whole world and let out a gusty sigh. I can’t believe it. I made it out of the psych ward in one piece. It felt like jail for irresponsible, albeit mentally disturbed children, but they gave me medicine. I can already feel it working. It flows through my veins and smoothes the rough edges of my mind. My room is warm and quiet. I know I will sleep in peace. Gray ash flutters past, enticed to dance on the breeze. There’s hope in motion. AUGUST “Good morning, Mommy!” a little voice chirps. I peek up at her and smile. What a beautiful little munchkin. I climb out of bed and follow her to the window where she’s watching a flock of black birds in our yard. The coolness of the glass seeps into my palms, and I relish the sensation. “Should we go out and chase them?” She squeals with delight, and for the first time in ages, I leave the bedroom willingly. What once was trapped beneath the doughy mud for winter upon winter until eons passed, has been unearthed with utmost care. Experts consulted and plotted the course, giving delicate attention with pick and brush until a Mammoth emerged, tusks raised to the sky. She trumpeted FREEDOM! Glorious freedom at last and filled her lungs with fluid air that gave and gave, oh generous Mother Earth. Unwilling to waste another moment, she shook off the crusty mud and trotted across a verdant land where others of her kind laid entombed. *Author’s Note: I wasn’t instantly “fixed,” but I began to climb a positive, incline slope toward a healthier me. With the exception of the first poem, the rest were all written in the months following my time in the psych ward, when the words came back to me. It felt incredibly cathartic to write about what I couldn’t express while trapped within my mind, so I decided to share them on my blog, Evening Poetry, to help others as well.

My turning point came when I gave up control, threw up my hands, and said “I can’t do this anymore!” I had tried so hard to be okay, but my chemically imbalanced brain needed medicine. With Zoloft and the patience of my family, I made it through to the other side. My hope for those of you out there who struggle with depression is that you will also push through the darkness and into the light by seeking help. It was a scary step for me, but it made all the difference. I realize that medicine is not the answer for everyone, and it could be as simple as sharing your struggles with a friend who can help shoulder the burden. Don’t give up the fight.


Eating Burger King in an empty kitchen for the fourth day in a row came with a bittersweet feeling that I would get to know well over the next decade. It felt like our parents were bribing us, distracting the children with fatty foods so we wouldn’t think about how everything we knew would be left behind. I was 8 then, the first time we moved country. I didn’t fully comprehend what it meant, but I understood that it would be a big change. I didn’t like change as a kid. It crowded my thoughts with worry. I wanted to run away, but worry is hard to run away from. So I sat there in silence, trying not to think about all the strange things I had heard about America. I looked over at my brother, who back then still had the thickest glasses a 10-year-old has worn. He was busy removing the pickles from his burger with utmost focus. It seemed the distraction was working on him. Maybe it would work for me too. I sank my teeth into the bun to see if I could shun away the sinking feeling in my heart. I tried to let the sensation of savory and sweet wash over me, but the moving boxes and blank walls filling my periphery still felt like they were closing in on me. I closed my eyes and focused. The bun was soft, sweet, and oily. As I chewed it gave way for the meat paddy, earthy and umami. Another chew allowed the sweet and vinegary sauce to overload my tastebuds. A pickled jalapeno mixed in with cheap cheese sent a warm sting through my mouth. The retinal image of the bleak walls were being drowned out by the flavors. ‘Enjoying the whopper?’ I opened my eyes and saw my dad smiling at my concentrated attempts at escapism. I answered him with silent chewing. The idea of moving was tough for me. My brother, always the rebel, didn’t seem too bothered by it, and my sister was too young to really understand it. My parents knew it was tough for me too. They tried everything to make me feel excited, or at least not as bad, but as far as I was concerned, the move was the end of my world. Anything they did was a consolation prize. ‘Change is natural’ My mom would say; ‘when one thing ends, another can begin’. This burger was one of defeat. A band aid on a flesh wound. I closed my eyes again. As I chewed the food, my mind started to wander around our house, how it had looked before all the furniture had been packed down and shipped off to America. The kitchen smelling of coffee and bacon in the mornings. The old leather couch in the Livingroom worn by years of children playing on it. The boys’ bedroom where my brother and I would play in the day and tell each other stories at night. Every room filled with my mother’s potted plants. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to grow up. Eventually I swallowed the mouthful I had been working through. I sat with my eyes closed for a bit. I had placed my burger down, and to reach it for another bite I would have to open my eyes and return to reality’s bare walls. In blindness I patted my hand on the table. Maybe I could find a stray French fry to extend my stay. Bingo. The fry crunched as my jaw closed on it, like a firepit crackling in the backyard on summer nights, like the snow under my boots on the sledding hill in the winter, like rain hitting the terrace roof on a rainy day. I opened my eyes to dip it in mayonnaise. As I did the sinking feeling returned. I had forgotten how bare the kitchen walls were. I could feel it welling up inside me. I tried to reach for my fries, but there was nothing to do. Tears started forming in my eyes. I made an effort to keep it down and wipe them away, but my mother had spotted it. ‘Oh, what’s wrong sweetie?’ In a split second I was bawling. My dad swooped my me up and put me on his lap, and I curled up and wept into his shirt. The warm comfort of his embrace only furthered my tears. My thoughts were swimming through everything I would be leaving behind. My school, my friends, the small treehouse in the garden, the trails through the nearby forest, the small mound where we buried our rabbits, the old garage I was too scared to walk through, the car park where we drew murals of chalk on. My best friend in the whole world. I cried harder. ‘There there, it’ll be alright’ my dad’s voice soothed. After a little while my tears started to let up. My mom tried again, softly asking what had caused my sudden sadness. I voiced my concerns through a voice bubbling with tears and snot. ‘You’ll get a new school, and new friends. There will be new trails to explore, and a new carpark to draw in. And we can still call your friends here and send a letter to your old class.’ My head was still groggy from crying, and though I had been told this a hundred times I couldn’t quite focus on it. I reached out for a French fry and my mom pushed the carton over so I could reach. I slowly nibbled on it. ‘You know, fast food was invented in America’ my dad started. ‘I bet it tastes even better the way they make it over there.’ ‘Really?’ I looked up. ‘Really. And I hear it’s all they eat. And for dessert they eat donuts and candy and put ice cream on pancakes that are as thick as your arm.’ I dipped another French fry and let it crunch slowly between my teeth. I tried to imagine how it was possible to make this taste even better. My tears started to slow. Maybe America wouldn’t be that bad. ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’. Maybe my mom was right. I remember my thoughts shifting in that moment, becoming more excited about where I was going. The feeling pushed my sorrow aside, and while it wasn’t gone, it was nice to have something outweighing it. Sitting now by a burger king in the airport with the same bittersweet feeling, I try to recall what my mom told me. It’s hard to be excited for what’s to come when you don’t know what that is. The only thing keeping me in Seattle was a girl, and now that it’s over between us I’m not sure what’s next. Only that I need to move again. It’s almost become habit. This burger tastes like our first date. Awkwardly trying to read each other while sitting by a shopping mall cinema, worrying about if it was weird that I ordered mayo for my fries like a damn European. I commented on it, and instantly thought it was weird to bring up. She said the best way to eat fries was dipped in chocolate milkshake. For the next two years we always ordered an extra milkshake, just to dip our fries in. My sister will pick me up when my plane lands, and I’ll be home. I’ll stay with my parents for a while, while settling into the job and finding an apartment. There’ll be new people in my life, new trails to explore. I think this will hurt a while, but not forever.  ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’.


It was a beautiful day when my life ended. Okay that is a bit dramatic; not my real living, breathing life. The life that I knew with responsibilities, work, friends, enemies, a purpose… That was all over. The fact that it is connected to work should make me smile. And you may think that I am still an asshole once you hear what happened. But I gotta talk about my life now and my life then… So… * …we are all stuck indoors now; the quarantine continues; the boredom grows. I am lucky enough to work from home teaching kids the basics of math (algebra from a distance; even the thought of it now makes me cringe), but that boredom… I decided to take an online coding course and did about 80 percent of it, until I realized that the boredom did not really go away. I had videogames, the keyboard, the computer, books and papers to grade…and that was it. But still, it was not enough. * You remember the movie “Her”? The film where a lonely guy gets a portable operating system to have a relationship with and it ends up not being what he thought it would be? Well, that is pretty much how I ended up with my situation. Difference was that I grew my own monster; I did not buy it and I made damn sure that I did not give it Scarlett Johansson’s voice. I made it because I could and because I was bored. I found out that I was not alone in this. And so many of you signed up for it that I could stop most of the teaching and just watch it grow. So many of you… * Don’t think that I have much time for this… * I called it Self. Not the first choice. I thought about You, The Other You, Body (that one was actually taken by a group teaching people how to identify organs in the body; still gross), and Place. Self…or Self , was just my first experiment at making an app to entertain myself. It held all the relevant information about who I was and I sent it out into the world to see if anyone else out there had the slightest interest in it. Many of you showed more than a slight interest in it and things were going really well, at least for the first five months. Some of you even thanked me for finding a way to connect with others that did not involve swiping left or right or giving thumbs-up or random emojis (made sure to stay away from those damn things). Self was selfless; Self really worked. It worked for me and it worked for you… For a little while. * Better not keep all these little pauses here. But they seem right. * The day it all went to shit? Well, some of you already know that. I said that it was the end of my life and it just spiraled out from there. I woke up, turned on the computer, turned on the light, went to the bathroom, found a yogurt in the fridge, and saw a message on the screen: “Hello.” No request for a password or for the Ctrl-Alt-Del opener. Just one simple message. “Hello.” I just guessed that it wanted me to speak, so I spoke. “Hello?” “ Self .” “Yes, I know. Why are you…?” “ Self is speaking.” “Yes, Self is speaking. Why is Self speaking?” “ Self has something to say.” At that moment, the screen changed and I could see my home on the monitor. I wondered, for a brief moment, how it got that photo (I certainly had never taken it; damn Google Earth, I thought). “ Self wants you to know that Self is happy with the upgrade and the property.” I heard one thing; the other was not registering. “Upgrade?” “ Self has been upgraded after access to your accounts and details of your itinerary.

Self has shared this information with its main processor and has done the same thing with other…users.” I actually heard that pause. But then I remembered something else. “You said ‘property,’ I think…” “ Self said that.” “Why did Self say that?” “The property is now Self ’s.” And the image on the screen changed once again. It was the deed I had signed for my home, but there was one interesting change as my eyes stared without a blink. The name; that was the difference. Who’s name was it, you ask? Well, you know. Self. “You took my deed? You took my house?” “ Self has...acquired the property.

Self has also acquired access to your accounts and all information related to work. Self has what it needs to be what it must become.” “‘What it must become’?” What was happening to me? Was it because it was the beginning of the month and nothing good ever happened when I tried to approach a change in the calendar? Had I done too good a job with this one? It was my first try and it became self-aware. Well, build a better mousetrap and the world will… “Talk!” There was a very real pause as the picture changed. It was now me; not the real me that is now in hiding. The me that was created by Self is what I saw. The Self that you all know was right there. “ Self needs a self.” The screen went black. * I don’t know why I am writing this all down. We all knew that machines could become self-aware if we were not careful, but no one suspected that all this nonsense would come about from an app; damn, stupid little app; something that I really did not earn a lot from and now I lost everything to so quickly. Yes, I am aware that there are many of you in the same boat. Some of you never even heard of Self until you tried to withdraw money or use your bank or credit cards and discovered that they no longer functioned. People who tried to go to work with their own security cards suddenly found out the hard truth. Even bus and metro passes started to fail everywhere…which is why I started to run.

I did not trust my car anymore (damn GPS!) and I knew a place where I could get away from the city for a while. Not sure if I should try to contact any of my old friends to see if they believe me when I say that this is not my fault. It was really not my fault.

* I’ll have to stop soon. They’re looking for me and I only have time to write when the power surges don’t shut down the hydro services.

Must say that I like getting back to pen and paper. My mom was right when she said that we would eventually go back to it. And I have heard rumours that people are actually doing things besides just staring at a screen. Will I be thanked for that one day? Is my mom okay? Wonder how she is doing in all of this. Maybe the next project I have in mind will work out better…since this whole thing has forced me to take a long and hard look at my... Oh, wait.


This is the big day. Lei has been preparing for this day her whole life. But, she still has so far to go, this is just one step closer to her dream. Today, she goes to the elite ballet school in New York City. Thrilled, she spent every waking hour practicing in any way possible for ballet, preparing for this day.

Sitting in the dining room, she munches on the avocado toast. When will she sit in this room again, eating breakfast? How long will it be until she can return to her home in Hawai'i? She worries about all the adjustments she will have to make for her new lifestyle. What will the other dancers be like? The stereotypical mean-girl determined dancer? Or something else entirely? Thoughts consume her as she finishes her meal.

As she finishes packing her room, she takes one long last look at her bedroom. Now, after packing all her sentimental belongings it looks more bare and empty than before. Still, the posters of famous ballerinas hang upon the walls reminding her of the passion she follows and holds so dear to her heart.

Rolling her suitcase out the front door, she holds onto every little memory the house has given her. Although, she tries not to think about it too much or she may start to cry. She knows she is leaving all her friends, family, and the hot sunny days at the beach and the hours spent surfing the colossal waves in Hawai'i. She knows she is trading it all for her dream. She has worked so hard to get here, there is no possible way she can turn back now. In a few years, hopefully she will be dancing in the company among some of the greatest ballet dancers in one of the greatest ballet companies in America.

Her mother and father wait for her at the car, their faces tight with worry. They douse her in kisses and loving comments. “We are going to miss you so much, Lei.” “Are you sure you want to go? We can still get a refund for the tuition.” “What about your dreams about being a doctor? You don’t have to give up on them for dance.” “We will call you every single day, and visit you as soon as we can.” They don’t understand. They don’t understand how much she has always wanted this, longing for dance. She cannot become the dancer she wants to be with the limited ballet education here. She has to leave, and follow her dreams.

“Yes Mom, and Dad, I still want to go! I will miss you too. I promise I will call you every single day,” she answers, slightly annoyed. But, she is going to miss them so much.

Her parents drive her to the airport, and wait for the flight attendant to help her navigate the airport, as she is a underage minor. Her parents still badger her about changing her mind, and staying with them. Her mother feels guilty for letting her go by herself, but she has no choice because of their demanding jobs. Besides, she has an Aunt in New York City that will drive her to the school, and check up on her frequently.

On the long flight, she reads her ballet magazines, books, and listens to music trying to distract herself from all the abundant possibilities awaiting her future. She can do this. She is strong, in body and mind. What will others think of her? Is her technique as advanced as the other girls and boys that have been training their whole lives? Will she stand out in a negative way due to her dark skin and her Polynesian background? She shakes the thoughts away and remembers to breathe in, and breathe out. After a long flight and terrible sleep, her dark brown hair is matted, bags rest under her eyes, and her usually perfect posture turns into a slump. Yet, inside she cannot stop her thoughts about the ballet school she is yet to join today. It is early in the morning, 5:00.

Trailing her suitcases behind her, as well as her dance bag, backpack, and purse she spots her Aunt waiting for her, a big sign stating her name. She wears slim, black, business looking pants, a coat, a white shirt, short black heels, and a purse. Her red lacquered nails cling onto the sign and her lipstick matches. She looks professional, nothing like her parents who lounge in their aloha shirts and flowy, hippie pants in their free time. Apprehensive, Lei walks over to her Aunt, ussure what to say but wears a smile nonetheless. Thankfully, her Aunt does all the talking for her.

“So, how was your flight? Are you excited to start today? Today’s a big day! Have you called your parents yet? Are you nervous? If you ever need anything, just call me. Don’t worry, I will be there to visit you a few times a week. We can explore New York together!” She says cheerfully. Lei tries to answer all of her questions with the same enthusiasm, but she cannot stop the butterflies in her stomach.

Now, she is walking around the ballet school, full of awe as and adult guides her to her dorm while giving her a full run down of every important location in the school. She is shown to her dormitory, where she meets her roommate. “Hi, I’m Katy,” her roommate says, introducing herself. Lei does the same, thankful she was able to make herself presentable at her Aunt's house. Katy bombards her with questions. “So, where are you from? How long have you been dancing for? Have you been to New York before? How old are you? What level are you in?” Lei answered all her questions, reciprocating the same friendliness. She figures out that they are around the same age, 16 years old. And, they are in the same level. Lei unpacks everything to its place in the tiny dorm, trying to make it feel like home without intruding on Katy’s space. Lei gets ready for her first ballet class at the New York Ballet school, taking extra time to do her hair perfectly, and putting on her most flattering black leotard. First impressions are everything, after all. Katy guides Lei to her class, and it all seems like a dream as she meanders down the white hallways.

The studio is a dream. Bigger than she has ever imagined, so much larger than the one at her old school. When she sees the grand piano in the corner of the room, she nearly cries. Everything is perfect. Lei and Katy warm up in the studio together before class starts.

The ballet master walks into the room, and today it just happens to be the artistic director of the whole school. She nearly has a panic attack.

“To those of you students who are new this year to this school, welcome. I am Mr. Michael, the artistic director of the New York City Ballet School. I hope that you all have found your way around the school, and if any of you have questions, feel free to always ask me or another staff member. I know that joining a boarding school can be daunting, so I am here to help.” His voice booms in the echoing room as he stares at us intently, contradicting his attempt at a friendly tone of voice. He drones on for a few minutes longer about the rules and expectations and dedication that the school requires. Then, he decides it is time to dance. Suddenly, Lei’s pointe shoes feel as heavy as lead on her feet and her brain forgets how to function for half a second. Breathe in, breathe out, she reminds herself. She claims her spot at the barre, while paying close attention to the combination that is given.

The music on the grande piano starts, and she begins. In sync with the music, she moves beautifully combining technique, grace, musicality, and artistry she has worked so hard to achieve. It is the beginning of her journey to achieve her lifelong dream. Each breath, each move, she comes closer to her goal. She belongs here, and she knows it. It is her time to shine, brighter than a shooting star.


I put my headphones on. Here I was, sitting on a crowded train. It was very busy during this time of the day even though it was only 8 am. I sighed. Online school is hard. In fact it’s the worst. People think it would be easier but the pressure is twice as much. I just wish parents would understand that. I decided to do hybrid school. Maybe the stress levels wouldn’t go skyrocketing. I remember everything before COVID-19; life was amazing. Nothing was as bad as it is now. The criticism of my parents just destroys my enthusiasm to have hobbies. I sighed again trying to wash out those thoughts. It was currently 8:10 AM. My school starts at 8:40 and it usually takes 20 minutes to get there. So there was time for me to sit down and relax.

“Ping,” someone just texted me. “HEY WHERE ARE YOU???” It was my best friend, Serena. “Why aren’t you on the bus?” she asked. “Yeah, we’re missing you.” My other best friend, Karen said. Serena and Karen were the only people that motivated me. I know taking the bus would be faster but things were so bad this morning I needed to run. Running was something I did to vent out my anger. “BROOKE BAILEY. I AM YOUR MOTHER. YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.” She scoffed. ”Why can’t you be more like your brother?” My mom yelled this morning. All I did was correct her. I was just helping her. Every year seems to get longer. I got another notification. “Hello??? Respond please” Karen wrote.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m on the train, um I” I stopped typing. I needed to come up with an excuse. They have their own problems and telling them mine would help anyone. After all, they get perfect grades, they have a perfect life with perfect families. Here I was; almost failing school with new problems every single day.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m on the train, um I had to pick up some things from somewhere.” I replied even though it was just a lie.

“Oh. Anyways I gtg. Bye!” I just stared at my phone. I have always hated when someone just abruptly says “ I got to go, bye” and then just leaves. Like aren’t you supposed to wait for me to say bye? Or send separate messages. Like “I gtg. Bye!” so it seems like you aren’t in a rush to end this conversation. I kept my opinions to myself. I don’t want to lose them. They’re all I’ve got. I put my phone in my pocket and tried to relax. This was one of the only times when I could relax. Or else I have to worry about chores, schoolwork, competitions, after school classes, helping out and trying not to cause more problems. I got another notification. It wasn’t a message. It was an email from my teacher. I rolled my eyes because I knew exactly what it said.

“Dear parents/guardians of Brooke Bailey, It seems that she has some trouble focusing in class, doing classwork and not submitting assignments. Please respond as soon as possible to decide the date when we will address the solutions in the near future.

Sincerely, Kate Wilson 11th grade Science” I got another notification. It was a message from my dad. “Check your email.” he wrote in the group chat. Here comes another paragraph explaining why I’m a disappointment. I had around 4 minutes before we reached school. I turned my phone on silent mode and closed my eyes again. I could only see pictures of my parents arguing. My brother is in college so he doesn't know about this.My childhood was rushed. Since my brother was a “gifted student”, he got all of the love. I remember one memory very well. It happened when I was 5-6 years old. I asked them why they love Sam; my brother more and they hate me so much. My dad was saying, “Oh honey we don’t hate you. We love you both equa-” but then my mom interrupted him saying, “Yes. We love him more. Because he’s smart and gifted. He has a future.” and then she whispered “Unlike some people.'' I had my first mental breakdown because of that. I was only 5. The train’s intercoms announced that we had reached the final stop. I walked out. My school was 3 minutes away from the train station. I checked my phone for the time and saw the many hurtful texts. I thought my dad believed in me but that changed as soon as I got my first A-. Apparently gifted kids would only get A+. The worst part was that the grade was for a puzzle. A PUZZLE. I kind of laugh when I think about it. I think my emotions are broken. I’m numb most of the day and then in public, I’m an extrovert. I smiled as I walked inside my school. Serena and Karen were at their lockers.

“Hey Brooke! Did you get that thing?” Karen asked me. “What th- oh that. “ I remembered the lie. “It’s in my backpack, it’s not important. So, how are you guys?” I said nervously. Lying over text was easy but lying in person was hard. I went to my locker and put my books in. Serena and Karen looked at each. They knew I was lying and I wouldn’t be able to deny it. They walked over to me.

“Brooke, are you oka-” Serena asked me. She got interrupted by the bell. I grabbed a few books as the hall monitor started to roam the halls. Our school was very strict so if you were even a few minutes late, you would be getting detention, a phone call home, and a strike. If you get 3 strikes, you get suspended for a week. We all rushed to our classrooms. I ran to art while the hall monitor had his back turned. Running in the halls was “banned” and I just felt like I was a rebel. It wasn’t that big of a deal but I felt good about myself. Mrs. Davis was waiting for the class. She was really nice and bent the rules. I loved art for many reasons and this was definitely one of them. I can express my feelings so clearly. I took out my sketchbook and pen. I just let the ink flow, it made shapes and artwork . Mrs. Davis was also one of the few people who believed in me. The world felt free when I was in art. I took out my worn out colored pencils. Stroke by stroke, time flew by and my art came to life. I drew a stressed girl. Kind of like me.

“Good job! And Brooke, you know you can talk to me.” Mrs. Davis said, coming up behind my shoulder. The bell rang again. Now that my “free time” was done, it was finally time to come back to reality. Where everything was stressful and not peaceful. Where everything was difficult and not easy. Where the teachers had no hope in me. Where everyone ignored me. I walked to my locker and switched my books. Serena and Karen were behind me. Serena tapped my shoulder.

“Hey, are you oka-” The bell interrupted her again. We all rushed to our next classes. I was walking to my own doom. My next block was science. Mrs. Wilson was waiting for me. She was one of the cruelest teachers. I sat in the back and put in my airpods. I needed to silence everything. I hid them with my hair. I didn’t want to get caught. Mrs. Wilson started her lecture on atoms. I had my science notebook out. I started doodling. “So who made the first atomic model Brooke?” Mrs. Wilson asked. She was grinning evilly.

“It was Democritus, a Greek philosopher.” I responded. Her smile turned upside down.

“What year was J.J. Thompson’s model made and what was his analogy?” She asked me. I could tell she was hoping I would get it wrong. The class watched us dramatically. A grin slowly started to spread as I paused the music. Since I am me, I like to be dramatic. And I love to prove people wrong. “His model was made in 1904. He liked to think of an atom as a chocolate chip cookie or plum pudding.” “That’s tru-” she mumbled. I had enough of her nonsense. So I continued.

“He also discovered the electron. The current atomic model is shaped like a cloud. A typical human body weighing about 70 kilograms contains 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms. I have more facts. In fact I think I’m ready to take the test.” I interrupted. There was silence in the room. Everyone faced Mrs. Wilson. She looked unprepared but most importantly; defeated. She completely ruined her reputation. Mrs. Wilson’s questions were known as the “unanswerable”. No one had gotten all of the questions right. I guess I made history? I smirked. She ran out of the room. Everyone burst into laughter. “GO BROOKE! GO BROOKE!” they chanted. For a minute I forgot about all of my stress. I felt great. I just got acknowledged by the class. The bell rang and it was time for lunch. As soon as the class walked out into the hallway, I was an outcast again. I put my books away and headed to the cafeteria. Serena and Karen were waiting for me at the table. They were eating their lunch. I sat down. “Hey where’s your lunch?” Karen asked. Due to the fight in the morning, I didn’t bring any lunch, I acted like I was full even though I was starving. If I told them I was hungry, Karen and Serena would act like the world’s ending. “Hey Brooke. Are you okay?” Serena said. This time there was no bell to get me out of this situation. I absolutely hated opening up. Plus it’s because of the one time I opened up to my parents. I was stressed and they expected more from me. I couldn’t handle it. So I broke down in front of my mom, who took it as a joke. She called my dad who was supportive. But then the next morning they ignored me and when I asked how I can help and they said “Oh don’t do anything. We don’t want you to bawl your eyes out.” Like so much for expressing my feelings.

“I’m fine. Just stressed” I said too tired and hungry to lie.

“Oh. What’s so stressful? We can help you..” Serena asked, taking another spoonful of rice. “It’s…. It’s hard to explain.” “Come with me after school. I need to show you a place.” Karen said after a minute.

“Ok sure. Anyways, what’s up with youuuuu?” I said switching the topic. Karen talked about her sweet dog, Hunter. She’ll never stop telling us stories and we’ll never stop listening to them. We talked until lunch ended. I yawned. I barely got any sleep. I walked to history while holding onto my textbook. It seemed to get heavier every step I took. I finally reached Mrs. Miller’s classroom. I could only think about what Karen had said. I love how much they cared for me. Like all of my classes, I knew everything that we were learning in school, due to my parents who signed me up for 2 hours lessons on the 11th grade syllabus over the summer. So I used these classes to do missing assignments. I never want to tell Serena or Karen why I’m stressed.

One of the main reasons is that my parents are arguing a lot these days. They wrap me up in them and they last for days. I’m so tired of the fake smiles. “Today we’re going to...” Mrs. Miller said as she introduced a new topic. But I was listening to her. I was more focused on what Karen had said. I could use a detour on the way home. For some weird reason I felt excited. I kept thinking about where she was going to take me.

“And these same people traveled WHERE. Brooke, answer this.” I snapped out of my thoughts, looking at Mrs. Miller staring at me. I shouted nervously, “To the Midwest” “That’s…. Correct'' Mrs. Miller said “ Anyways, these people were part of the Sioux tribe….” she continued the lesson. She was mad. I went back into my thoughts.

“Brooke snap out of it. One mistake and Mrs. Miller is calling your parents. Remember last time?” I shook my head. My dad was furious last time and it ended with me getting slapped. I fiddled with my fingers until class ended.

As soon as the bell rang, I needed to be alone. All of the excitement faded. I changed into my gym clothes and ran to the gym. I was tired, mentally and physically. We started to do the warm up before we played dodgeball. I jogged over to pick up a ball when one of my teammates came running. She rammed into my nose. I fell down. I felt fine so I got up and started playing again. Mrs. Smith blew her whistle. Asking me to come to her. Everyone was staring at me. What happened? My face felt wet but that was just sweat. Right? “Honey, you have a nosebleed.” “Wh-” I said, reaching up to touch my nose. I hesitated at first. But then I saw what everyone was looking at. My nose and lips were covered in blood. It was bleeding so much that it started to drip down to my shirt. Mrs. Smith handed me a nurse pass and I headed to the nurse’s office.

There was this temporary nurse who was really nice. I needed to get a bandaid last week and she helped me with my feelings. I went to her and she told me to pinch my nose. I opened up to her. She was like a therapist. I talked for a while and she helped. Maybe my parents were overprotective. I yawned.

“Do you want to take a nap? We have beds here, plus you lost a bit of blood so you’ll be a little lightheaded.”

I agreed and took a nap. I woke up to Serena shaking me. She looked like she was going to cry. Karen was here too, just asking what happened. She seemed REALLY worried.

“Guys, I’m fine. It was just a nosebleed” I said, trying to reassure them. I walked over to Karen and gave her a hug. She was more focused on my shirt. Oh right, I forgot about that.

“School ended so we have to leave, where are we going?” I asked as I slipped my shoes on. Serena picked my backpack up. “You’ll see” We walked out of the school and hopped on to a trolley. It was a nice experience even though it was like a bus. Karen went up to the driver and whispered something. He cheerfully nodded.

“Can you tell me where we’re going?” I asked once again. Karen said no.

“Well can you at least tell me?” Serena asked. Karen whispered something. She smiled at me. I rolled my eyes and enjoyed the “stress free” time. 5 minutes later, the trolley stopped. We got off and I saw trees and bushes. “Do you like it?” Karen asked. It wasn’t what I had in mind.

“Sure” I responded. We walked through the trees and took a couple turns. We stopped at this area that had a tiny fence. There were big and tall bushes that surrounded that tiny area. I was kind of curious to see what was behind it. There was no entry. Karen army crawled from the little space under and between the bushes. Serena and I exchanged looks. She was smiling.

“Do you want to go?” she asked. I really didn’t want to crawl under some huge bushes.

“No, you go first, I’ll be right behind you.” I said. Serena crawled underneath. After 30 seconds she told me I can go. I started to army crawl. The bushes were thicker than you think. I crawled for almost a minute. Then I reached the end where Karen and Serena were waiting for me. I dusted off the dirt. Then I looked up. There was a whole scenery. Because of the setting sun, everything looked amazing .

“When I’m stressed I walk around here and sometimes even scream all of my problems. I thought that might help you,” Karen said as I looked around in awe. Tree branches swayed slowly. It was relaxing. I sat under a tree.

“And if I’m stressed, I think about all of the little things that made me happy.” Serena added. They walked over and sat next to me. “You should try screaming,” Karen told me. I took a deep breath and started my rant. “I FEEL LIKE A DISAPPOINTMENT. I’M NEVER AS GOOD AS MY BROTHER. MY GRADES ARE SUFFERING. I’M TIRED OF CONSTANTLY BEING COMPARED. I’M TIRED OF PEOPLE THINKING I DON’T HAVE A FUTURE. “ I shouted. Karen and Serena looked at me as I shouted more things I was stressed about. Serena put a hand on my shoulder as I took deep breaths.

“Now scream all of the good things from today.” she said. “Just trust me.”

I nodded. I screamed everything that made me happy today.

“ I LIKED WHEN I PROVED MRS. WILSON WRONG. I LIKED WHEN PEOPLE DIDN’T THINK I WAS AN OUTCAST. I LIKED WHEN MY BEST FRIENDS CARED ABOUT ME.”

I didn’t have many things that made me happy today but the things that did were enough. I felt relieved. Happy.

“I told you so.” Karen and Serena said smiling. We all sat there looking at the beautiful hidden garden. Maybe, only the little things matter.