We used to be friends. I don’t know much about you now. We drifted apart. Our schedules changed and you could no longer fit me into your life, not around your classes, not around your job, and not around your baby. I only remember the person you were, when we used to be close. She was a person who was loud, resilient, colourful, a person who hoarded things that gave them joy: shiny pebbles, pink pens, patterned socks.

You are older now, grown. You are more mature now, having changed while I stagnated, sinking into myself. You are quieter now, more subdued, and sometimes I can see the core of the person you used to be, shimmering beneath the surface.

The gift is in my hands. I hold it out to you, and you look into the bag, peek underneath the crumpled tissue paper. I watch your face change, squirming.

"They're socks," I say. "Socks with tacos on them."

You raise your eyebrows.

i want to turn myself inside-out

something claws at me

within the confines of my body

i want to let it out

free it

explode

i burst out of my shell

silence, comfortable, sitting thigh to thigh, sharing snacks, smiles, laughter, stealing glances from across the room, breathless moments, inside jokes, reading over your shoulder, the mixtape you made sitting by the radio for hours, patience, compromise, the tense discussions over the kitchen table, the worry creasing your forehead, and the way it lifts when I take your hand in mine.

Love is.

I exist. I can feel the floor through the clothes on my back, feel my chest rise and fall. The ceiling is white. Bare, save for the fan. I watch it rotate. Count its cycles. I blink.

The bed is next to me. The duvet brushes my arm. I washed it, last week; I should wash it again. I am squeezed into the nook where my bed does not quite meet the wall, lying down in that small space. It is silent here. My world is contained here, in this pocket. Two by three by six. My feet stick out over the edge. They are cold. A draft settles over the room.

I stare, pass my eyes over the cracks in the ceiling, the lone smoke detector. Stare into the lights until I see their imprint, burned into the backs of my eyelids. The afterimages follow my gaze, stark against the empty ceiling. I close my eyes, drift off to sleep.