text: The droplets of rain made me feel big, but not gigantic. As crisp as a day can get, the room--plain and clean--grounds me. My focused eyes are processing the world, leaving my mind behind. *Tap. Tap. Tap*. My feet don’t tap. It was the counselor’s. Him and his large feet that I can see from underneath the desk. “I have to let you know, although you already know from our past meetings, if you have any intentions to hurt yourself or others I’ll be forced by law to tell your parents guardians. Anything otherwise, by HIPAA confidentiality, I cannot tell even your parents of what you tell me.” I nod. “So why didn’t you schedule with the therapist, from Swedish Hospital, here at school?” *I’m not financially challenged*, “My parents have the money to pay for a therapist, unlike the people who use the school resource,” He laughs, “That's a crude way of putting it, but your situation is peculiar since you don’t want to tell your parent. But, you know,... look, I want you to know that no one would judge you for getting help.” When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat, “why do you think you need therapy?” I paused, “well.” I search my memory, but all I can think of are the sirens, “I feel dead,” I wanted to laugh. Laugh it off like a sick joke, but it died at the pit of my stomach and all I could come up with was an eerily petite, picture worthy smile. He raises an eyebrow, “can you be more specific?” but in a kind way, not threatening or confronting; soft like the little picture of a peninsula reflected off a lake, making it look a lot like a penis with odd ridges, hanging behind his head. “It’s like someone reached in, and pulled out my throat,” I responded, and he nodded as if he expected it. “Do you feel suffocated?” “Yes.” “That’s a common feeling among your peers,” he said. “I doubt it,” I smiled, but it wasn’t much of a smile. He then proceeded to give me a round of statistics. “I see,” I said, but my mouth was on a line. The bell rang soon, and I told him I needed to go to first period. He gave me a late slip, and told me we need weekly meetings. I only nodded. Through the hallways, *your face haunts mine as I walk through, and I don’t want to escape you. Sometimes, that’s the only place where I can see you*. The teacher nods when I walk through, seeing the pink late slip through my fingers. *At night, I rub my eyes,* *Teary and calloused,* *I hope tomorrow when I look up, it’ll be more than a blur,* My hands shook as I wrote, looking up to see the stare of a teacher, “what are you doing-” I crumpled it up, and pushed it into my backpack, but she didn’t relent. Her eyes went to my bag, and instead of telling her it was just a piece of paper, I handed it to her. “Oh,” she looked at the simple poem, then looked up sternly, “come to my office after school. We have to talk about your commitment to my class.” I nodded, my throat dry, “okay.” Lunch came too soon; my stomach wasn’t grumbling. I stared up at the spot where I'd eat lunch with my friends, and saw a few familiar heads pop up, but instead of going over there, I headed up the other staircase, when no one’s looking, into the janitor’s closet where the stairs to the roof led. There is no more yellow tape, *it disappeared in a day, a week of announcements, just like you*. But when my eyes focus on the sky above, I can still remember the smile, petite and picture worthy. *For a good while they had a suspicion: I pushed you down, but my feet were planted firmly on the pavement.* Rhythmic taps of feet on the ladder rang, and I turned around fully expecting you, but the janitor came up, and he wasn’t smiling at me anymore. “You are not allowed to be up here, please leave.” “Okay,” I nodded, but my voice wasn’t apologetic, just a mutter. He probably didn’t hear. “I won’t tell on you, but you can’t do this anymore.” He said. His voice broke, and for a moment I thought something was wrong with him. Voice breaking for something simple, like an opera play where people sing, but when you’re young, always mistake for a shrill cry. I looked down at my feet as I passed him. When I get back to the hallways, *I can still see your peachy face, but they’ve forgotten in a year’s time. When I go back to our middle school the teachers no longer hang up your prized watercolor paintings, only your trophy is left in Mrs. Gelard’s room*. The hallways, clean and empty, like lunch never happened. *Shit*. I ran to the science wing. The teacher wrote me up as soon as I walked in, and I had to head to the counselor’s office. “Again?” Mr. R, the front desk man asked, looking down at the slip, “same reason? Didn’t your counselor tell you to set an alarm before each class?” I shrugged, diverted my eyes. “Once more, and we will be forced to contact your parents.” My eyes met his quickly, holding the gaze, “okay.” This was my protest, unapologetically, my standing, and he only sighed and sent me back. *This was my Rosa Parks... Not caring for anything. I’m done with pretending.* My mother would have told me to explain myself. To be presentable even if it cost me my well being. I shook my head and walked myself back. Stupid. I walked to class, trying to imagine the last time I heard from you, but my legs felt like they were put in place by my mother, and my mind could only seem to search for the numbers above each door. I thought I was past this, but maybe it’s a matter of my feet that are now grounded, and my fixed vision. I opened my classroom door, seeing the hate through my teacher’s eyes. Hate is a strong word, I’ve learned, but my teacher walks over and I can see the animalistic snarl. Her teeth are showing, as she tells me to sit in the back. I try to understand how she can have 100 bad days, for all the days she’s been in school. After class, she calls me over. The lid over a small box of grievances is slowly lifted within me, but I breathe in, and push it down, far beneath me. As a soldier would, I looked at her, erasing all signs of emotional distress from my facial muscles. I followed the strict regime my mom herself would be proud of, looking at the direction of the teacher’s face. “Are you going to take your education seriously?” She asked sternly, and I almost wished she had glasses so there’d be a boundary, a glass wall between because she doesn’t know what touched me before. She stays, with those piercing blue eyes. She isn’t a new teacher. *I’m supposed to say yes*, “yes,” I respond. My stomach knots up, and I stare at the whiteboard behind her instead of her eyes. A little fear tells me she can tell I’m not staring in her eyes. “Then get to class on time, and stop sleeping in my class.” I nodded. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. I didn’t ask how she was feeling either. I’m fair this way. I used to feel like a good person that way. Now, it doesn’t quite have the same charm it used to. I feel old, and the rage shakes my bones. As I walk home from school, I no longer come up with excuses, and my mother opens her mouth to scold, but closes it--wordless. “Are you done?” “Done with what?” I sucked in a breath. “Are you done with acting like you don’t care?” She glared at me, “is this still about Lisa?” “No, why would it be about her, it has been a year,” I snapped. She snapped back, “you better put your act back together, do you want to be flipping hamburger buns when you grow older? I didn’t come all the way from China for you to act like this!” I rolled my eyes, “go back to China then.” “Am I a bad mother?” She asked, and I know this never ends well. “No. I’m just not a good daughter.” I sighed. “AM I A BAD MOTHER?!” She asked again. I growled, “NO, I ToLD YOU, I’M a bad-URGH YOU’RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME,” “AM I A BAD MOTHER for you to be acting like such-” “I’m not talking to you until tomorrow. We’re not doing this. You’re not even listening to me,” I huff, and head upstairs. She tries to follow, but must have agreed because she didn’t make it up the stairs. I try to release my breath as I shut the world off with my bedroom door, but I hear no hysterical crying. It’s stuck in my throat, and it’s not about the failed expectations or my mother’s screaming. “I’m sick of being sad,” I lay on my bed, and put my head on the pillows, hoping for a bad dream. But, even I realized after a year or two, if love was enough you’d be here while I hang--loose, and cold. And written behind the homework was apologetic for all the times I failed to be.