I said I have nothing to write about. My brother gaped at me like I was having a second one.

I can see well enough to dictate my innermost thoughts onto a digital medium, but I’m legally not allowed to operate a moped. I can think straight enough to con men on the internet into sending me money from my hospital bed, but I can’t keep track of my water cup for more than a few seconds.

I’ve been whining about my inability to go back to work so constantly that I only just realized I’ve been handed the opportunity to write my little PFO-addled heart out on a silver platter.

I miss coffee. And carne asada.

Spinach is actually pretty good on pizza, though.

I never thought whole milk would try to kill me. I’ve always joked about how it’s the reason I’m so tall.

My mom calls it a “God Shot”—an AA term used to describe a serendipitous event or sign that feels profoundly meaningful and supportive of your sobriety.

I call it a dent in my plans, scary as hell, and a pain in my ass. Plus it only kept me sober for three days.

But the silver lining stands. If I get as sizeable a disability check as I’m expecting to, I might even be able to live off it during my upcoming travels. The only catch is I can’t apply for citizenship anywhere else.

I’d have to keep hopping from one country to the next, every six months or so, on a never-ending “vacation,” so that I can still technically reside in the states—which just so happens to have been the plan all along.

Maybe this was a God Shot.

I can sober up in Brazil.

        “Who raised you?” has never been an easy question for me to answer.

        Technically, I could list two parents, four grandparents, and more aunts and uncles than most people see at a family reunion, but names alone have never felt like the right response.

        The truth is, I’ve been asked that question more times than I can count, and rarely in moments that called for a thoughtful reply.

        More often, it came shouted after me.

	There was the grocery store clerk who kicked me and my childhood friends out for the innocent mistake of thinking bananas would make good projectiles. Clearly, he didn’t fully appreciate that we were targeting only each other, and not any unsuspecting customers or employees—he yelled the question out after us as we ran through the parking lot, bananas still in hand.

	And the woman who was forced to pull over because those same friends and I had discovered the joys of a lighter and our neighbor’s spare gas can. She was keen for an answer as well. Nobody ever told us we weren’t supposed to light the entire street on fire from one sidewalk to the other, though, so how were we supposed to know, really?

	But it wasn’t just a question asked of my younger self; the situations only got riskier.

	Just over a year ago, the resident of the open-windowed apartment I found myself climbing past after I decided to venture up a random fire escape—an older, muscular, shirtless man who reeked of whiskey and a desire for confrontation. Thankfully, he ended up being polite enough to wait until after I had fallen two stories to the ground before asking.

	The driver of the SUV who involuntarily taught me how to do a front flip on my moped didn’t say it out loud, but I’m sure he wanted to know too. We were practically the same age, but I think a collision like that would stir up some curiosity in anyone. After all, who goes 65 mph through a row of parking spots?

	It wasn’t until after a few close calls that it became clear to me: the question was never really about the moment it was asked in, but about the kind of person those moments seemed to characterize.

	As an adolescent, judgments passed on you are more easily dismissed. They can be written off as grumpy adults who’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a kid. “Just having fun” becomes the end-all, be-all justification, and it overrides any responsibility you haven’t yet learned. It’s the kind of logic that works flawlessly—right up until the moment it doesn’t.

        So at what point does recklessness stop being excused as growing pains?

	Is it when you make a mistake so costly that your actions finally have consequences? Or is it before then—when you’re old enough to understand the impact your choices can have—that enough minor injuries can become a lifetime of chronic pain, enough harmless trespasses a prison sentence?

	That’s when the question of who raised you really comes into play.

	Was everything handed to you, or were you made to earn it? Did your guardians take it upon themselves to teach you accountability, or did you learn it the hard way?

	For a long time, I thought I had the answer: I raised myself.

        It felt true, too. I went to the school I chose, spent time with who I wanted, and even decided what I believed—or didn’t—when it came to religion. My opinions have always been my own, despite my parents’ valiant efforts to impart their many years of wisdom and experience upon me. My decisions weren’t always without roadblocks, but I was usually allowed the final say.

        Still, in practice, both my mother and father tried hard to teach me how to act properly around others: what to do, what not to do, what to say, how to say it—reminding me that staring is rude, and that strangers don’t take kindly to being told they’re fat. But their constant oversight at the time, well-intentioned as it was, only pushed me to find roundabout ways to assert my independence. I’d perform obedience while doing as I saw fit behind their backs; work hard enough in school to bring home a decent report card, but only to ensure I’d have the freedom to get up to no good in my spare time.

	What is a rebellious spirit, though, without an authority to defy? What is an independent thinker without the luxury of contemplation beyond how to simply survive?

	It’s a much more convenient claim to make—raising yourself—when you’ve already been provided with a roof to raise yourself under; food with which to feed yourself; a set of rules that you can choose to either follow or quietly disobey.

	It seems the safety net has always been there. I just didn’t recognize it until recently, when I came home.

	The irony is hard to ignore: saying I raised myself from the comfort of my parents’ backyard, sitting on the same couch I’ve always sat on. After two years of living on my own in San Diego, moving back in wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, especially if I wanted to make my next move to Brazil more than just an idea.

	So I’m back under their roof, for now. Eating their food. Still insisting on doing things my own way, even back here. The difference is this house doesn’t feel like somewhere to escape from anymore. It feels like a refuge. The small town I spent my earliest years in no longer feels so claustrophobic; instead, it feels familiar.

	It really is good to be back. It reminds me of who I was before I left and who I became while I was gone. Time away has given me the proper context to see how this place shaped me, and I’m grateful for a chance to reconcile those two versions of myself.

       All those hours spent drinking in parking lots because there was nowhere better to go start to look different in hindsight—less like aimlessness, more like restless energy escaping wherever it could. The tighter social circles of a less populated area taught me to be more image-conscious; in a place where everyone knows everyone, people talk. Even that subtly conservative edge of an agriculture-driven economy left its mark, filtering into my perspective in ways I couldn’t fully grasp until I moved away.

        Looking back, none of these influences—hometown habits, restless boredom, the need to be seen a certain way—were things I chose so much as things I absorbed. Whether I realized it or not, they were doing exactly what people had been asking about all along: raising me.

        So now I reconsider the question itself. Maybe “who raised you?” was never meant to have a simple answer. Because it wasn’t just my parents, or just my younger self acting on instinct—it was everything. The places I couldn’t wait to leave, the mistakes I brushed off as harmless, the structure I pushed against, the safety net I failed to notice until I needed it.

        It’s funny how plainly I can see it, sitting again in the world I once thought I had already outgrown.

	Why bother committing a name to memory when you already know your presence is temporary? 
        Why teach your tongue another person’s syllables when goodbye has already been written into the margins?

        The math is simple.

        If losing someone—be it a friend or a lover—hurts. 
        If building connection in the first place is slow and precarious work, exposing the soft underbelly you spent years learning to armor. 
        If you’ve met yourself well enough to recognize the pattern etched into your nomadic tendencies—burnout, relocation, reinvention?

        The equation solves itself.

        You linger along the edges of rooms. 
        Avoid the eyes of strangers you feel inexplicably drawn to. 
        Charm your way out of any intimacy that threatens the carefully managed loneliness you claim to resent.

        Eventually, you stop questioning it. 
        Start seeing these sidesteps as answers to the real questions: those open-ended ones of what if? and what then?

        Because what if you take that risk? 
        What if you open yourself and it turns out a mistake? 
        What if they learn your weaknesses and sharpen them into weapons?

       Worse—what if they don’t?

        What then?

        Do you wait around until they do? 
        Spend your already numbered days together suspended in some purgatory of a threat yet to reveal itself? 
        One not only perfectly positioned to strike, but one welcomed as a guest?

       Unthinkable.

       What if you reveal yourself fully: warts, scars, doubts, insecurities, perversions and all, and you’re misunderstood?

        Worse—what if you’re not?

        What if they see every flaw you’ve catalogued and buried, every imperfection filed away for safekeeping, and choose to leave? 
        What if nothing you’ve done—only who you are—is enough to drive them off?

        Then you’ve been made a fool. 
        Not by them, but you. 
        The competence you cling to so tightly is fractured under scrutiny—
        you should’ve seen it coming. 
        You should’ve learned by now. 
        How could you not have learned by now?

        The strength you project doesn’t crack. 
        It collapses. 
        And everyone notices—of course they do. 
        How could you convince others of something you no longer believe yourself?

        So you choose threats you can anticipate. 
        Betrayals you can forecast. 
        Endings you can initiate.

        Controlled demolitions. 
        The one cycle under your command. 
        Leave before you’re left. Reset before exposure.

        But when that strategy fails. 
        When your own patterns finally turn to face you. 
        What then? 

        How do you rebuild without the only tools you’ve ever trusted? 
        With help?

        Could you ask for help at all, with nothing to offer in return? 
        Could assistance without transaction ever be real?

        Of course not.

        That’s how debt is born. 
        That’s how you get trapped. Limited. Caged. 
        Stripped of the little power you’ve managed to wield in a world seemingly bent on taking it from you.

        No. Help is not an option. 
        Help is not freely offered. 
        Help is monetized. 
        Freedom means independence. 
        And independence demands distance. 



        Everything costs. 



        But what if it didn’t have to?

        What if you weren’t the only one capable of helping without pretense? 
        What if others stood just as still, equally guarded, held back by the same unnamed fear?

        Worse—what if most people felt this way?

        What if the world of loneliness you pretend to suffer exists only because you built it? 
        What if the only barrier between you and connection has always been yourself?

        What then?

        Do you simply lay down your weapons? 
        Lower your guard? 
        See the space closest to you not as a strategic vantage point, but as the only distance from which an embrace is possible?

        Unthinkable.

        What if you grow dependent? 
        What if attachment takes root—only for loss to follow?

        Worse—what if loss never comes?

        What if the very parts of yourself you’ve kept under lock and key are the reason they choose to stay? 
        What if nothing you’ve done—only who you are—is enough?

        Then you begin to see just how many times you fooled yourself. 
        What you longed for was never out of reach—only waiting for you to dare. 
        You should’ve seen it coming. 
        Didn’t you see it coming? 
        You’ve seen that fear mirrored in them. 
        You must have seen it coming.

        Maybe you did. 
        Maybe you just weren’t taught to dare. 
        Maybe the years of your heart’s atrophy weren’t entirely your fault, but they left you weakened all the same.

        Of course they did. 
        How could they not?

        Maybe names are worth learning. 
        People worth knowing. 
        Maybe even brief connections are worth their ending if they guide you closer to the ones who remain.

        After all, the math is simple.

        If losing someone hurts—but solitude hurts worse—
        If exposing that soft underbelly is the only way genuine affection can reach you—
        If the connections gathered along your travels are not hazards, but half the reason for traveling at all—

        Then the equation solves itself.

I set my to-go cup of work’s rotational soda on the railing so I can open the door without dropping both my dinner and Amity’s—a mission failed successfully. The cup teeters over the edge as I twist the handle and shoulder the door open. I try to catch it just before it falls, but only manage to knock it over faster. It meets a swift end at the hands of the concrete below, and I curse angrily like the cup should have known better. 

But it’s fine; I’ll just drink sink water with my food. Get in my daily dose of murky goodness and mystery chemicals. 

I should be able to get some filtered water from the dispenser in my fridge, but someone never went out and bought more filters.

Also fine.

The first few steps past the entryway are the last I get to take in peace, and even those are cause enough for criticism.

  “ZOE!” A shout from the other room as the dog comes bolting out and straight at me. Zoe jumps up insistently as I hold the bags of food above my head, out of her reach. The surge of fur and energy is a bit overwhelming, but I can’t help smiling at such an enthusiastic greeting. 

Then out comes Amity from the spare room, walking with the kind of annoyance that would make even the most cocksure man feel unwelcome. 

“Hey,” she says. Short and definitely not sweet. Almost overtly bitter.

 “You seriously don’t need to go up the stairs that loudly. I could literally feel the whole house shaking.” Zoe retreats to the futon behind me.

 I blink in response and hold out the food in my left hand. 

“Here’s your caesar salad. Sorry if it’s soggy. I told them it was to-go but he tossed it in the dressing anyway. Fuckin’ Ricky.” 

“Ugh, it’s fine.” But she doesn’t grab the food. Instead she half-jogs away, back to the room. 

“Cool,” I mutter and roll my eyes, setting the bags down on the kitchen table. I go to follow her to the spare room, met with what looks like the aftermath of a small explosion. Only instead of rubble, there's clothing everywhere.

  She ruffles through piles of unsorted clothes as I silently regard the catastrophe before me, nodding my head like this is to be expected. Mostly because it is. 

I interrupt with, “Whatcha looking for?” 

She replies without looking up, “I’m trying to find something to wear. I’m gonna go back to work and have a drink with Lauren.” 

All I need to hear. 

“Nice,” I say flatly, and walk away.

 By now I know ‘a drink’ really means twelve, but at least I’ll have the place to myself for the night. I take my food from the table and join Zoe on the futon. Grab the remote. Flip the TV on. Open Netflix and put on my go-to show for mindless rewatching.

Amity comes out after another ten minutes or so of digging around, wearing her favorite pair of jeans and a low-cut, slightly cropped black top. “How do I look?” 

I think she looks beautiful. Like a woman who knows she’s attractive without feeling the need to prove it—which, to me, makes her even more so. 

But I don’t say this. Because she’s not asking what I think. She wants to know what I think others will think. Our coworkers, bar regulars, strangers. People whose opinions trade at a much higher stock value than my own. I go with a more vague response.

“It’s very you. You got a jacket? It’s kinda chilly out.”

She responds like it’s the most idiotic question I could’ve asked, but she’s not at all surprised I’d ask it. “No. I can just borrow one if I need it.”

I picture her sitting at the bar next to a handsome stranger, shivering performatively until he offers his, thanking him with a smile and some lingering eye contact—just long enough to make him feel a little extra masculine for the gesture. 

Also very her.       

“For sure. Well, have fun. Let me know if you need a ride home.” She never does need a ride; or want one, at least. But I always offer. 

“Thanks,” she says, and turns to leave. But then she stops and turns back toward me, her eyes softening, brows lifting in that way they do right before she says something that matters. I smile before she even speaks; it’s not often lately we say it out loud—

“Could you walk Zoe at some point? I didn’t get the chance to take her today.” 

My smile drops. “Yeah… no problem.”

She thanks me with an exaggerated grin. Then she slams the door behind her. She bounds down the stairs, easily louder than I was coming up.

I sigh and look lazily at Zoe, not wanting to get up but knowing exactly how to motivate myself. I lock eyes with her for a second…then start: “You wanna g—”

She leaps to her feet, with the urgency of a sudden realization that her tail is on fire. In her rush to the door, she tramples me.

“Okayy, okay! Jesus, just let me grab your leash!” I chuckle, exasperated.

She stops jumping just long enough for me to attach the leash clip, staring intently at the door and whining expectantly. I can barely turn the doorknob and pull it open before she shoves her snout through—too small at first, then wide enough for her to squeeze past. I’m nearly bashed into the door, left with no choice but to follow. 

I stumble down the stairs after her, completely unaccosted by our downstairs neighbors—amazingly enough. We turn right at the end of the complex’s walkway, heading toward her favorite patch of grass. To my dismay, she sniffs at the dry lawn half-heartedly for just a moment, then trots on, apparently no longer in any hurry. 

Guess tonight’s going to be one of our longer walks. 

We make our way around the corner at the end of the street, heading toward her second-favorite spot: an apartment complex about a block away. It’s one of the few places in the area with a regular gardener, and the grass is always fresh and green—perfect for her lengthy inspection process, every last blade under strict scrutiny. 

Zoe’s approach is careful and methodical: she sniffs back and forth, left to right, moving forward all the while. She’ll squat down partway if she finds an especially promising patch, shifting her weight awkwardly as she begins to assume the position. But nothing comes of it unless she finds the perfect spot. It’s as if the grass will look fine, but never quite hit the note she’s waiting for.

We walk the full perimeter to its end, then back, then to the end again, then back again. On the third go around I feel my face start to get hot, and I march straight past the grass’s end, yanking the leash towards myself when I feel it go taut. 

I feel instantly guilty for getting rough with her—obviously she’d go if she could. But I find myself justifying it out loud anyway.

“Well?? Come on already. I know you have to shit so just fucking do it. It’s seriously not that hard.”

She understands my anger, if not my words, and her ears flatten as she forces herself to catch up. 

We round another corner, heading back in the general direction of home. I’m walking briskly now, undeterred even when she shows interest in a new spot. She pulls back subtly, looking at me then looking back at the spot, as if to question where I’m going. 

I stop. Breathe in audibly. 

“Okay, go ahead.” I try to soften my voice.

She sniffs for a second. Doesn’t even half-squat.

I continue abruptly before she gets a chance to finish her ritual. 

Zoe follows dutifully, and we finish the walk in silence. 

I unclasp her leash at the bottom of the stairs and she runs up to the door without looking back. 

I stomp my way up, step by step. Unlock the door. Open it fully this time, before Zoe pads in. She goes directly to the futon, putting her head on her paws.

I walk directly to the balcony, sliding the door open with more force than needed. Pick up a half-smoked joint, only to find no lighter in sight.

Great. 

I stomp to my room, snatch one from the top of my dresser, and march back outside. I twist the flint, over and over, dragging my thumb raw across the wheel. Sparks fly, but none catch. I curse under my breath and keep at it, until a small, trembling flame finally appears. 

I raise it to my lips, trying not to burn myself as I touch the tip to the heat. Sit back against the wall once it finally lights. 

I stare down into the empty pool in my neighbor’s backyard. Count the leaves piling up in the deep end. Funny how things can be abandoned and still take up so much space.

 I flick the burning filter over the railing and into the pool once it starts to burn my throat.

I step back inside, Zoe seemingly unmoved on the futon—except she definitely moved. I can tell by the obviously Zoe-sized shit on the floor, a fresh new addition to the living room carpet. It sits there like some kind of… statement.

A dry, resigned laugh escapes me.

She avoids meeting my eyes at first, but my response is enough to tell her she won’t be punished for the mess, and she happily follows me as I turn away and head straight to the bedroom. 

I’m tired. The carpet can wait.

She curls up next to me once I’m under the covers, and I’m grateful for her silent forgiveness of my earlier behavior. It’s certainly undeserved. 

I roll over and put my arm around her torso, letting her deep, rhythmic breathing lull me to sleep. 

Somewhere outside, the faint clatter of keys or a door unlocking drifts up from the street. I don’t move—yet—but the sound is enough to remind me that the night isn’t entirely mine.

- - -

Zoe and I sleep uninterrupted, maybe another hour or so before being woken by the sound of muffled laughter. Multiple hushed voices bleed through the wall, one female—definitely Amity. The other is deeper. Not by much, but enough for Zoe’s ears to perk up, likely just as confused as I am. 

I hear the balcony door slide shut, and I sit up. Zoe jumps down from the bed, looking nervously up at the bedroom door, then back at me. I climb out from beneath the sheets and open it. Follow as she shuffles toward the balcony, sheepishly—head down, tail wagging uncertainly. 

I make out the source of the second voice before I reach the door. It’s Riley—the dishwasher from work. Not a stranger, but hardly an expected guest. 

I ease the balcony door open just enough to step through without letting Zoe out. Their conversation continues without skipping a beat, Amity speaking animatedly, Riley responding with that ease of familiarity that only comes with inside knowledge. 

I can’t tell if it’s her laugh, the way they lean toward each other, or just my imagination—but my chest tightens.

Amity looks up from the balcony floor and greets me casually, Riley beside her, like the whole situation is perfectly normal. I don’t know whether to be annoyed or just quietly retreat. 

She interjects before I can decide. “Riley walked me back. We were just at Pump.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Pumphouse? That’s a long walk… not to mention sketchy.”

“Yeah, that’s why I made sure I had someone walk with me.”

“I mean, I told you I could give you a ride.”

She only shrugs. 

Riley adds nothing. 

Somehow, that makes it worse. 

“Okay. Well I’m gonna go back to bed. Goodnight.” I close the door before she responds. I wish I’d slammed it. 

I traipse past Zoe’s shit pile, nearly stepping in it on my way to the bedroom. I drop into bed and drag the blanket and sheets over me, rolling onto my stomach and pulling out my phone—not like I’ll be able to sleep anytime soon.

I scroll for a few minutes before I hear the sliding glass door close again, and Amity comes to the bedroom, standing in the doorway. I brace myself for an awkward apology. Instead, I get a galling request.

“Hey. Do you think you could give Riley a ride home? He lives all the way across the railroad tracks, and I don’t want him to have to walk all that way. I’d take him myself, but obviously, you don’t like me driving when I’ve been drinking.” 

Riley shifts behind her, finally finding his voice. “No, it’s okay. I really don’t mind walking.” 

She turns toward him to argue, but I speak first.

 “If you’re fine walking, I’d rather you do that.” 

He nods, clearly relieved, and that’s the end of it. The front door shuts heavily behind him on his way out. 

Amity comes to bed and slips under the covers beside me. I stiffen, letting the mattress dip slightly at her side but not turning toward her. 

Zoe curls up at the foot of the bed, letting out a soft sigh. Her presence is comforting, but it doesn’t bridge the distance between us. 

I stare at the wall, willing my thoughts to untangle themselves, while Amity hums softly, pretending the quiet is enough to erase the night’s strain. 

Before tonight, I might have pretended to agree, but something feels different this time. There’s no air of guilt or regret beneath that humming. No unspoken desire for reconciliation. 

Nothing more needs to be said—some endings are quieter than you expect.

Is the phrase “cogs in a machine” a metaphor or simply a summary of the reality that is? Why do people assume that our definitions of free will and destiny are mutually exclusive?

In the grand scheme of things, in the calculus of the universe’s (probably) proverbial computer, isn’t it possible that each individual’s free will, their unique combination of nurture and nature, and the choices made as a result of said combination, are predestined? Couldn’t it be conceived of that a mind as great and vast as that of a deity or the universe itself, of what or whomever was brilliant enough to create an existence such as this, in such perfectly balanced chaos and order, orchestrated a nearly infinite amount of variables in the exact times and places it knew were necessary in order to achieve a predetermined outcome?

What is this outcome? Better yet, is there an outcome?

Is our belief that everything must come to an end strong enough to hold up against the possibility that we have only ever believed this because none of us have ever managed not to experience an end to ourselves? Are we so bold and self-centered as to assume that because we all inevitably come to an end, so must everything else?

Because if a beginning only exists when somebody was there to observe its start, and how it differed from a previous state of existence, who’s to say time ever began? And if one day, no one of the human race will any longer be around to observe it, how could time possibly end?

- - -

I’ve looked down on the whole idea of therapy for as long as I can remember. Could just be my father’s own regurgitated beliefs finding their way out of my mouth, but it’s always seemed like a scam to me. You pay a hundred bucks an hour—on the low end—to talk to a complete stranger: either a homely-looking woman in her thirties or a middle-aged man with more student loan debt than hair. Somehow always one or the other.

You tell them all your problems, or as many as you can feel comfortable sharing with someone quite literally looking to profit off of your misery. You listen to them list off a few CBT techniques they learned from an outdated, overpriced college textbook while you pretend you haven’t already reached the same conclusions, minus the catchy acronyms.

I’m sure therapy works for some people. Maybe the ones who don’t have their own internal monologue; the kinds of people that actually stand to benefit from having a professional human mirror hold up their emotional reflections for them. Answering every question of yours with another question, guiding you towards an answer they could have just stated outright, were their ability to drag out each and every minute not so profitable.

But for the rest of us, the ones who spot patterns whether we want to or not, therapy can feel like nothing more than confirmation bias in a comfortable chair.

Sure, it’s nice to have someone to talk things out with. But the real high comes less from new, life-changing revelations, and more from receiving the validation of a trained professional telling you that you’ve basically been right all along.

I only found these things out firsthand recently, when I started getting some free mental health counseling at school. Apparently it’s complementary for us brave few with enough ambition to pursue higher education, full time, at a community college so prestigious that nobody outside of a 50-mile radius has ever heard of it. It’s probably the best, if not only shot I have at affording mental healthcare within the next decade, so I figured I may as well take advantage. After all, I’ve got nothing but time and undiagnosed issues.

Turns out, I actually like therapy. Not for any of the right reasons, but still. The important thing is I’m here, right?

It took me only the first session to realize just how pathologically agreeable this woman is. Her smile never wavers; her eyebrows sit in a permanently upward tilt—like even her confusion is trying to look supportive. Maybe all therapists are like this: staying pleasantly neutral and keeping you feeling like they’re on your side, never contradicting you too directly.

But I guess I get it. It’s not like she’s being manipulative in a malicious way. It’s really sort of a clever tactic; probably great help in getting through to some of her more defensive patients. I’m sure there’s a cute little name for it too. Shit, I bet there’s a whole section of Therapy 101 dedicated specifically to it.

Unfortunately, probably more so for myself than her, I don’t take any form of manipulation too well. And somewhere deep in whatever part of me still thinks every human interaction is a chess match, the battle for the imaginary upper hand begins before I notice it happening.

Any chance of radical honesty on my part evaporates by the end of that first hour. What could have been beneficial for me, had I allowed it to be, becomes another power struggle—one that, unlike the past, is entirely in my own head. But that doesn’t prevent it from feeling real.

Each meeting is a game now, one I was initially certain she’d catch onto—being the professional and all—but I find myself almost disappointed in the one-sidedness of it. I give her all the right answers:

“No, I don’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah, I know that thought pattern is unhealthy. I’m working on it.”

I showcase the good head I have on my shoulders, conveniently failing to mention the two body parts have long been separated—a delicate balancing act I’d rather keep to myself.

Still, she responds with nothing but pure, unwavering gladness that I’ve “managed to come such a long way” on my own. Not even the slightest flicker of, “I see what you’re doing” in her eyes. Only unhesitating acceptance of every word that comes out of my mouth.

So maybe I’m just too convincing. Or maybe she doesn’t care enough to look past the performance. Either way, the game has started to lose its appeal, and it’s starting to feel like I’m just repeating myself. As it turns out, she feels similarly.

She tells me after our fifth or sixth session that she’s more than happy to keep seeing me, but that I’ve demonstrated a solid understanding of all the self-help techniques she’s given me—even going so far as to acknowledge that her expertise is mostly limited to these more basic techniques, and that I might benefit more from seeing someone who is properly qualified to diagnose and treat me.

What I hear is the sound of forfeiture, the tipping of her King in resignation, admittance of defeat. What I feel is abandonment, like the first person who had any chance of helping me just gave up on trying. It’s a bittersweet victory, but what I say is nothing more than the polite response, nothing less either:

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll have to see if there’s anyone I can even afford, but I really am grateful for the time we’ve spent. You’ve been a huge help.”

It’s the psychotherapy version of getting a haircut you don’t like, but tipping well anyways. Like using the breakup cliche of “it’s not you, it’s me.” Except in this case, it’s actually true.

Today I skip the audio production class I’d normally spend the rest of the afternoon—and evening—enduring, ready to just be home already. It’s one of those hybrid courses where you’re technically taking two classes but they’re really just two angles of the same mind-numbing lecture. Six hours of forced stillness. And stillness isn’t exactly my strong suit.

Yet here I am, sitting perfectly still in the parking lot. Engine running. Music blaring. Burning gas while my brain spins its wheels. Somehow I’m caught between my refusal to go to class and dreading the long drive home, and there’s nowhere left for me to go but inwards.

I let my thoughts wander randomly, hoping somewhere along the way I’ll stumble onto the motivation necessary to put my car in gear and start driving. I think about all the things I still have to do tonight, how tomorrow there’ll only be more. How sitting here might be the most counterproductive thing I could possibly be doing right now. I think about something my now-former therapist said only a few sessions ago, something that stuck with me. It was along the lines of how sharks never stop moving because if they did, they would die. A metaphor, one she was attempting to use to describe my habit of always staying busy.

I understood what she was getting at, but as the overly-knowledgeable animal enthusiast that I am, I couldn’t help but correct her. Because it’s actually not all sharks that can’t stop moving. In fact, most species use a process called buccal pumping to allow them to continue breathing, even while stationary. It’s only some of the larger species, like Great Whites or Hammerheads, that need to keep swimming in order to pass water over their gills for oxygen. This was, of course, a moot point in the face of what she was really trying to say, but one I felt inclined to make anyway.

Caught up in the midst of my battle of wits, I realized in that moment that the statement I’d just made was an obvious avoidance of the issue at hand; a grave mistake that needed correction, lest I show my cards and lose the advantage. So I added quickly, after a calculated pause, “But I get what you’re saying. A hammerhead shark never stops moving. If it does, it dies. But I am not a shark. I gotta learn to slow down sometimes.”

And there it was: prompted as it may be, the verbal acknowledgement that stillness is exactly the thing I’ve been avoiding for so long. The key to learning how to truly heal. The piece I’ve been missing.

It’s a funny feeling, having an epiphany you wish you hadn’t.

- - -

My mind snaps back into the present as the song changes abruptly. I shift into drive without a second thought, peeling out of the parking lot like I’m late to my own bed. Truth is, no one’s anticipating my arrival but me. And the homework assignments I’ll be pulling my hair out over tonight aren’t even due until next week. But the thought of continuing to sit here feels like risking drowning just to see if I can grow gills.

So yeah, I’m not a shark. I won’t actually die if I stop moving. But I’ve gotten pretty damn good at pretending I might.

The real question is why I’m here.

Sitting on top of a table outside the Jack in the Box near her house, waiting. Improperly. Impatiently. The obvious answer would be her—she’s why I’m here. But I volunteered for this late night rendezvous of my own accord. Planned it, even. I must be in love with her, right?

It’s not like it’d be unrequited. Not entirely, at least. She’s a complicated person. And she’s not the only one. Our relationship has always been one of blurry lines: back and forth between romantic territory and best friendship. I don’t use the term “best friend” lightly either. Not like some of these girls at school with a new “bestie” every other week.

I’ve found that the walls I so carefully constructed inside myself are not easily scalable. It takes time and consistency. I’m always looking for proof of investment, and I need time to reveal any signs of untrustworthiness. Most people don’t have the patience, which is fine by me. A smaller circle means less people to worry about. Less people to care about.

Eva, whose arrival I still anxiously await, has proven herself more than worthy of that title. Our ways of thinking are so similar it’s uncanny sometimes. She’s always understood me better than anyone.

I’d like to think my understanding of her is the same, but sometimes I wonder. She’s not always the most consistent in knowing what—or who—she wants. But I can definitely understand that. And even in her inconsistency, she’s never done anything to hurt me. Not directly, that is.

As far as she knows, we both get around. She’s always got a new “hoe story,” as we like to call them, her promiscuity taking on the shape of an adventurous tale, one with both heroes and villains alike. Sometimes she’ll sleep with the hero: maybe some popular, golden-retriever energy type. More often though, it’s the villain: selfish, manipulative assholes who always know exactly how to get what it is they want. Of course, she never phrases it this way herself. The roles of each are decided solely by me and my own subjective impressions.

Obviously, I’m a biased audience. I know this. I’ve known this. But I’ve always tried not to let it show.

One cornerstone of our relationship is the fact that neither of us ever judges the other, and I would hate to make her feel like that’s changed. That—or I would hate for her to realize just how hopelessly and irretrievably head over heels I am for her… Probably just the first one.

Usually, I’ll have my own story to follow up with. Most are exaggerated, some made up entirely, but they’re convincing enough all the same. My parents raised a great liar, if nothing else, and that’s one thing about me Eva doesn’t seem to fully grasp. Their helicopter parenting style and my radically independent personality clash now and then, but I learn quickly. Act out the obedience they expect, say what I know they want to hear, and keep my grades up: I can practically get away with murder.

Point being, I don’t think she has a clue how much it kills me to hear about her little escapades, but I only have myself to blame.

Tonight is the night though I’m hoping to finally become a character in one of these stories. I haven’t exactly been just an audience member, per se. We’ve hooked up plenty of times before in the looser sense of the phrase: trading explicit photos, making out in the lighting booth at our choir concerts, even cheating on our significant others together once at a school dance. But we’ve never gone “all the way.”

I’ve never gone “all the way” with anyone, if we’re being honest. But she doesn’t know that; my friends don’t either. I’ve built a sort of false reputation as being something of a free lover, not too different from her real one. Luckily, my relative attractiveness and outward cockiness help with credibility.

Fake it till you make it, am I right?

Maybe it’s just the thought of finally getting rid of the virginity my friends all think I lost years ago that brought me here tonight. Maybe I really am over her this time, and it’s just the teenage hormones pulsing through my body that have my heart racing. Maybe it’s simply my sense of adventure that has me waiting outside a fast-food joint in the cold, so late I can’t even sit in the “open late” lobby. All I know is I can see her now, walking up the street—and it feels like the stars have finally aligned.

I jump up immediately, gesturing toward her, excitedly but not too excitedly. I yell out, “Ay, look who showed up!” trying to act at least somewhat casual. But there’s nothing casual about this. I planned the entire night out in my head, going so far as to pitch ideas on how to get past her parents and even where we could do the deed once she did.

Any normal girl probably would’ve been turned off by the excessive planning and overtly eager anticipation, but Eva isn’t normal. Neither am I, I guess.

Maybe that’s why I’m here, why we’re both here. A normal situation—us as an actual couple, maybe ending up in the backseat after a nice date—that was never an option. Not for us.

She doesn’t respond until she’s close enough not to yell, but her words soothe my butterflies immediately: “Dude, it’s fuckin’ cold out here!”

It’s not what she says, but how she says it. Her casual tone: genuinely casual, unlike my initial greeting. It reminds me of our shared familiarity. How our relationship really is, outside my delusional hopes of some sudden, movie-style confession of love.

She tells me about a hitch in our plans: our original idea to use her parents’ spare car—a beat-up old Volkswagen Beetle—was no longer an option. It was locked, with no hope of obtaining the keys. So I suggest a park nearby, being ever the problem solver. She doesn’t even hesitate.

“Ooh that could work,” she says.

We talk it over for a moment, wondering if there’s anywhere else with a bit more privacy. But ultimately, our options are pretty limited at such a late hour. So without much delay, we head to the park.

The walk takes around five minutes, but it feels like mere seconds till we arrive—a subtle foreshadowing of the hour to come.

We decide on the top of a table in the picnic area, figuring it’s probably cleaner than the playground, relatively speaking. Talk logistics. Do I have protection? Do we even need it? How will we clean up afterwards? How do we prevent direct skin contact with the tabletop?

It all feels very detached, doing more thinking than feeling. She offers to sacrifice her hoodie for the sake of cleanliness: an offer I can’t exactly refuse, since all I’ve got on me are the cellphone in my shorts and the shirt on my back. I keep my clothes on, in case someone shows up and sees us. She agrees it’s a smart choice, and with that the discussion is over.

We’re not talking anymore, but our lips are put to good use.

It feels familiar, nostalgic, even. We’ve been kissing since middle school, so it’s nothing unprecedented. The hard part for me is rising to the occasion—my excitement tripped up by my nerves. But this stops nothing. She knows a quick, easy solution. And suddenly, her mouth is no longer pressed against mine.

I feel everything at once. The cool table against my palms as I tilt my head back. The blood rushing from my brain. Her tongue tracing spots previously untraced. There’s no more waiting after that.

Our torsos press together, closer than ever, separated only by the shorts I left on. It feels like the heaven I’ve always had trouble believing in, but it’s short-lived. My inexperience shows in my stamina, and before long, her hoodie is effectively ruined.

I try out what I don’t yet know are the typical excuses: “It’s been a while; that’s never happened before.” In reality, she has no idea just how true that is, but she’s unfazed anyway. She goes with the usual reassurances: “Don’t worry, I take it as a compliment; I actually prefer to keep it short and sweet.”

All I can hear is the indifference in her voice, like it was never a big deal in the first place. And it wasn’t.

We’re only friends, nothing more. Not even as close now as we used to be. Summer has brought with it fewer chances to see each other, and come fall, I’ll be starting at a new school, in a whole new town.

I shouldn’t be feeling anything but giddiness, maybe with a small hint of embarrassment. I got exactly what I wanted: not the sex, but what I really wanted. After all these years, I finally felt what it was like for her to love me back, if only for a few moments.

I try not to think about it as she gets dressed. We sit together on top of the table for a bit, pillow talking. Minus the pillows.

“Took us long enough,” I laugh.

“It’s too bad we waited until now… I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” she says.

“Ahh don’t worry, I’ll still be in town all the time—no reason this has to be a one time thing.”

She agrees, leaning against me slightly. We sit in silence for a few minutes, breathing at contrasting paces as I finish catching my breath.

Then a police car rolls up.

It’s not looking for us specifically, but its wandering headlights spot us on the table. The officer pulls up and rolls down his window, staying in the vehicle.

“You guys do know the park is closed right? It’s almost four in the morning.”

Thankfully, by this point, we’re both fully clothed, breaking no laws except for an implied curfew.

Eva replies, “Oh, I’m sorry, we didn’t even know it closes at a certain time. I live just across the street, though. We’re just getting some air.”

He takes her words at face value, letting us slide as long as we head out soon. We agree without hesitation, and he drives off, merging back onto the main road. We immediately break out into laughter.

“I can’t believe that actually just happened!” she exclaims.

“Right! Imagine if he’d shown up like ten minutes earlier—we’d so be in jail right now!”

“This would happen the one time we do this,” she laughs, rolling her eyes.

The implication of temporariness in her words crosses my mind, but I let it pass. No need to ruin the moment.

She chuckles again. “Well… I guess I should be leaving anyway. My parents’ll probably be awake soon.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” I say. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Where are you gonna go? I know you said you can’t go home till tomorrow.”

“Eh, there’s always a park bench to sleep on somewhere. I’ll figure it out.”

We laugh together one last time, then she leaves.

In her absence, the silence grows noticeably louder. My mind wanders. I search my feelings. On one hand, I can’t believe the events of tonight even happened. It all felt so surreal. It still does.

On the other hand, it meant more to me than it did to her—a lot more. And she has no idea.

The loneliness of that thought creeps in, threatening to suffocate me if I don’t find a distraction, and fast.

My marijuana-stunted teenage brain immediately jumps to getting high. Works for everything else, why not this? I call up the only person I know will be awake this late and willing to smoke. He shows up not long after.

We drive just a few blocks away to the end of a half-built road, where the asphalt turns into rubble. Still public, but private enough to comfortably turn his car into a skunk-scented sauna. I recount the events of the night, bragging about how I got laid, that it was with Eva, informing him of our close encounter with the law.

The company is nice. And it keeps the melancholy at bay for a while. But eventually, he has to head home, and I’m left alone with my thoughts again.

The Denny’s he drops me off at is the only place I can think to go, but I’m a teenager from a less than wealthy household, still too young to get a job yet. So I sit at a table, stoned and penniless, asking the waitress for a glass of water.

She asks me if I need more time with the menu three, maybe four times over the next hour, before eventually kicking me out. I can’t just hang around if I’m not buying anything. Fair enough.

I walk about twenty minutes to the park nearest my house, met with overwhelming darkness. It’s pitch black, the only thing even remotely visible being the playground at the front. I wasn’t joking about planning to sleep on a park bench, but the dark—and my awareness of the local homeless population—makes me decide that going home before daylight is worth the risk.

It’s around five by the time I get there. I figure if Mom or Dad catches me walking in, I’ll just say I got into a fight with my friend and left early. It’s an excuse I’ve used before, but only once, so it should work.

It’s not until I try every single door and window of the house that I realize I’m stranded, only a few feet from the comfort of my own bed.

I don’t bother trying to call my parents. It feels like too much of a gamble, plus the odds of either of them actually picking up are next to zero. Alcohol has a funny way of keeping your sleep uniterrupted.

So I take the only logical next step. I climb onto the roof, curling up behind the chimney to avoid any nosy neighbors spotting me. I tuck my half-frozen legs into my shirt, pressing my stained shorts against my stomach, mildly grossed out but mostly proud of myself.

I really did it. It didn’t go at all the way I expected, but it’s official: I’m one of her stories now.

I smirk to myself as I somehow manage to doze off—a dreamless sleep. I wake with the sun, or it with me, and groggily climb back down. I decide to give calling my parents a shot: no luck. Surprise, surprise.

Then I remember my brother is in town, staying with us, so I try his phone: no answer the first time. I give it one more. Success.

He opens the door after a few moments and lets me in, still half-asleep. Somewhat confused, but no questions asked. I thank him quietly and slip past into the garage—another word for my bedroom. Change out of my dirty clothes and get comfortable on the sectional couch I call my bed.

My eyelids meet, and the story of my first time, our last time, concludes. Something tells me the future holds no epilogue.

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