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I searched the cupboards. The shelves of dusty adolescent books. Even checked under the stained blankets in the garage. But every dark nook, every spiderwebbed corner, and every cluttered drawer contained everything except what I wanted.

I slouched on our kitchen's wobbly barstools. It was hopeless. I’d never find it.

Tapping my fingers on the cold granite, I watched the bones in my hands wiggle in a grotesque dance.

I just want to share. My story. My work.

I want someone to follow the path I laid. To hear the words I say. To touch the seeds I grew.

Is that too much to ask? That someone enjoys my time. That the things I did matter. Am I weak for seeking validation? Or do I just not matter? Is it selfish to talk about myself? To pester you to care?

It's just another word. Another smile. Another ‘aha!’ moment.

I’m excited.

Why aren’t you?