It’s 1943 and I’m fourteen years old. My father is in the South Pacific on an island called Guadalcanal. He writes to me when he can, but I hear that it’s dangerous and my mother believes that he’s never coming back. She tells me to brace myself for that storm, so when the military men come and knock on the door, there’s no shock. She says she won’t even cry because he was a fool to go, and now she has to work long days at a textile factory. She cackles with laughter when I tell her I think that he’s a hero. “Boy, men have been killing themselves since the dawn of time. Heroes look after their families.”

I go to the Drekon school for boys up in Loudon. It’s a big gray building on a hill overlooking a small town thick with industrial smog. The boys there aren’t soldiers. They’re the boys who are going to send soldiers to their death. They even say so as they walk the halls filled with framed pictures of past presidents of the school. They’re the future bankers, lawyers, and factory owners. I don’t belong here, but my grandfather attended this school, and family of past alumni could attend Drekon so long as their grades were fine.

My mother tells me I need to do something good with my life. I tell her I will, but she laughs when I say it. She tells me, “You have too much of your father in you,” as though that’s the worst thing a mother could say to her son. But secretly I think that’s a good thing. He’s a good man, a hero, whether or not she wants to believe it.

On Wednesday’s after school, I take piano lessons from an old Italian man named Victor. His hair is thin and white, and when he isn’t teaching piano lessons, he’s in the back of his shop repairing them. The shop is beautiful, and it smells like history. It smells like if these pianos and violins could talk, they could tell you stories unlike anything you’ve ever heard. And the boy in me sometimes asks them questions quietly as Victor finishes up his work in the back.

I rub thin lines of dust in the shape of musical notes and I say, “What have you seen? Where do you come from? What do you think about the war?” They never answer, though my hope is that someday they will and I’ll sit with them for hours and write what they have to say. Because I want to be a writer, it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

Victor takes me in the back and I sit at a Steinway piano made of Walnut and I tap the keys and play some of Chopin’s Berceuse in D Flat and Victor smiles. “You’re practicing, I can tell.” He says through his small spectacles.

“I am.”

“But your heart’s not in it?”

“It is.” I say, and he laughs. Like my mother, a big cackle. And he says,

“If you want to lie to an old man, you’ll need to do better than that.”

“I want to be a writer.” I say.

He smiles. “And what do you want to write about?”

“Soldiers.”

“Because your father is one?”

“Because I believe they sacrifice a great deal, and people like my mother think it’s all a waste of life.”

“And you don’t feel that way, young Charles?”

I stop playing Chopin and I look up at Victor. He never seems to get angry, just curious. I’ve seen a man throw profanities at him in his shop before, and Victor’s tone and his well-articulated responses never wavered. And I wonder how he can do that, because I can already feel my heart pounding at the idea of debating this old man, only to find out that he agrees with my mother.

“I think that the country called, and he answered. And that I’ll do the same thing if the war is still going on in the years to come.”

“Well, I think that’s honorable, Charles. I pray that you never have to experience war, but I do believe there is a great sacrifice in service, and that sacrifice should not go unspoken.”

“Did you serve?” I ask.

Victor pauses for a moment, rubbing the small stubble on his chin.

“In a manner of speaking, I did.”

“And did you regret it?”

He pauses again, his brown eyes staring off into the distance.

“I regret what war does to men,” He says.

“What does it do?”

“Young Charles, there are more ways to die than simply the stopping of one’s heart. There are people out here walking these streets every day who are more dead than my forefathers. And it isn’t only your father who is sacrificing.”

“I-I don’t understand.” I say.

“Maybe in time you shall. Now, enough of this. Your mother pays me to teach you piano, and she is not a woman to cross.”

He lets out a smile, and I laugh. And we play Chopin while on the other side of the world. My father kills, and like Victor says, dies as well.

I’m sixteen in May of 1945 when the war ends. My father returns home in June. When the taxi pulls up to the house, I jump up from my study and run down the stairs and out the door.

“Hey, kid.” He says and smiles as I run into his arms. Mother is working at the factory, and I’m happy about that because I want to pick his brain and finally have a story worth writing.

End of the year writing assignments are due in two weeks, and I want desperately to showcase my best work. I know that Mr Dupoint has contacts in the industry, because he himself is a published author. His novel For There Goes The Tides of War was a great and fascinating read. He wrote it when he was stationed in France back in 1917.

We walk inside, and he asks where mother is.

“At work.” I say.

“Ah, yes. And I suppose she told you she needed to work because I’d run off?”

I nod my head. He tousles my hair and smiles. Letting out a big laugh.

“Your mother never changes. I sent money in an envelope every two weeks. Enough to keep a roof over your head. And she goes out and gets a job. What a woman.”

I smile. I don’t know how long to wait before I ask. But I’m dying a slow death inside.

“H-how was it?” I ask nervously.

“I’m glad it’s over, Charlie.” Again, he tousles my hair. He sits down in the dining room and asks if I’ll get him a drink. I pour him one, and bring it over, and he shoots it down quickly before asking for another. “How’s school?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay? That’s a great school my father got you into.”

“I know. It’s just, I uh, I don’t want to be a banker or a lawyer.”

“No? And what do you want to be, kiddo?”

“A writer.”

Another crackle of laughter. The same one that my mother gave me when I called my father a hero, and the same one Victor gave me when he caught me lying, and now my father when I tell him I want to write.

“A writer? For the paper?”

“No. I want to write books.”

“Write about what?”

“I’d like to write about you. I’d like to write about the glory of war.”

“The glory of war?” He says, but I can see blackness in his eyes. The same blackness from when he brought my brother back from the train tracks. Holding him in his arms, and staring off like if someone made a single wrong move, it would be a swift end to their life. "There's no goddamn glory in war, kid."

I hadn’t seen him in so long. And the blackness had returned.

“Just get the hell out of here, Charlie.” He says.

“B-but I,”

“GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE, CHARLIE” He screams and points to the door. "You want to do something with your life, pay attention in that goddamned school and get a job. A real job. So just get the hell outta, Charlie. I'd like to be alone."

“But I miss you. I-I-I haven’t seen you. I just want to hear about your heroics” “

He grabs me by the collar of my shirt. “I won’t tell you again.”

I nod my head and despite my best efforts; the tears begin to fall and he scoffs. My father in his army green. The most handsome man I’d ever seen. My hero. And as I turn to the door, my mother is standing in her factory clothes, her left hand resting lazily on her hip. She’s smiling.

She wraps her arm around me, and my father grabs another drink.

“So, you made it out alive, eh? Well, I told the boy not to get his hopes up. Because a lot of men weren’t coming home. But Charlie kept his hopes, anyway. Nice for Charlie to get some one on one time with his hero, eh Walt?”

My father throws the glass against the kitchen wall.

“A bona fide real-life hero.”

Then they begin to yell at each other. He’s only been home a few minutes. I leave and grab my bike and go to the music store.

I walk in and Victor is in the back with a boy of no older than six teaching him the basics. I sit and wait at one of the grand pianos. I tell myself to calm down, that war is hard. That it was my fault. I shouldn’t have brought that on him so quickly. I should have let him rest.

I whisper to the piano, “You’ve been through it all. You’ve likely seen war, yet you are gentle and kind. Your music creates peace and warmth. You are easy and easy to love.”

Then the little boy comes out from the back crying. “I hate this,” He says to his mother, as she drags him through the store and out the door with the ring of the bell.

“It isn’t gentle and kind for everyone.” Victor says. “It takes patience and understanding before it becomes gentle and kind.”

“Oh, you heard that?” I ask, embarrassed.

“I know you talk to them and want their answers. I know you seek answers from them because you know they’ll never give them to you.”

“I suppose it’s easier that way. Because then I can create my own answers.”

“Perhaps that’s what makes you a writer.” He says, as he walks towards me, taking a seat on the bench next to me.

“Your father is home. But he will never truly be the same.” Victor says and begins playing. “He will have days when he can forget, and days when the war is so clear, he’ll forget that he’s home. In many ways, the father you knew is dead. But in other ways, he isn’t. Just like the Charles, who came here as a sulking 12-year-old boy is now dead, but in many ways, he isn’t. We all die small deaths every day. It’s all a matter of how you choose to carry on. Perhaps your father will beat the worst of it, perhaps not. But if you want to write, find the beauty in all of life’s pain.”

“What if I don’t know how?” I ask.

Victor laughs. Again, that bright big cackle of his that drives me mad, but this time I smile.

“Then you’re no writer.”

It’s 1955. I’m 26 years old and I’m promoting my first book at a coffee shop a block from my childhood home. My hair is slicked back, and the reporter smokes Lucky’s while writing in his notepad. He asks me questions about my novel, Factory Girl and says that there seems to be a large demographic of women who consider me to be ahead of my time.

“What do you think about that?” He says.

“Well, it’s based on my mother. I spent a lot of time idolizing my father as a child because I felt that, as a boy, it had to be my goal to become a man. But being a man is a little more complicated than that, I believe. My notion of manhood was certainly one devoid of happiness and of any kind of aspirations that were my own.”

“What does your mother think about your book?”

“She likes it.” I say with a laugh. “She thinks that my fictitious mind sometimes runs away from me and that the book would be better if it were a bit more grounded.

“Your father is certainly a character in this book, but he isn’t necessarily a heroic figure, is he?”

I stop and look at the newspaper on the counter. I sip my coffee and see a headline that reads. Local Music Shop Owner Dies with a picture of Victor Abate. His stubble from my childhood, grown into a jolly old Saint Nick beard.

His voice echoes in my head at that moment, clearer than the voice of the reporter in front of me.

There are people walking these streets every day who are more dead than my forefathers

“I, uh, think that my father was gravely wounded during the war. Not physically, but certainly mentally. And I feel that perhaps my fictitious mind ran away from me slightly, but he became another child to my mother. And maybe she didn’t mind for a while because I lost my brother at a young age, but it broke her down as it did to me. In my eyes, she became more of a hero, and I began to understand exactly why she wanted to work while he was away. Because she’d heard horror stories of men returning home, and she needed to ensure that a roof was kept over my head. I began to look at the everyday heroics of the women who worked and cared for their children.”

“And how long has it been since your father passed?” The reporter asks.

“Three years ago. I miss him dearly, but I believe that he is happier now.”

I think back to the day he returned. The coldness of his eyes, and the sharpness of his words. The silence was paralyzing, he never told me a thing about the war.

Somedays I fear he was never a good man. And that my memories of him before the war were just snapshots. Just another story of a boy wanting desperately to be loved by his father.

“And what are your plans for the future?”

“I’m here to visit my mother, and I plan to persuade her to leave this town and move in with me. She worked tirelessly to keep a roof over my head and I believe it is now my turn to put one over hers.”

“Do you have another book in you?”

“I believe I do. Although I couldn’t at this moment tell you what it’s about but perhaps something about the magic of pianos.”

“The magic of pianos, you say?”

“Yes. The old man who owned the music store just passed away. His name was Victor, and he was a great friend of mine. I, uh, used to be a very lonely child, and I’d go to his shop early even though I knew he had other students. I wasn’t too keen on the piano, but the smell of aged wood provided me with a great comfort. I’d even ask the piano questions.” I chuckle softly at this. The reporter raised an eyebrow quizzically. “I was a young boy looking to write, and the pianos had history. I prayed that they’d open up and tell me their story, and I could write the world’s greatest novel.”

“Did they ever answer?”

“No. No. Not in so many words. But they still helped me unfurl my own stories. If not for Victor and the pianos, I would have never written this novel.”

We finish the interview, and I shake the man’s hand. I walk out of the coffee shop and head down towards the music store. I walk in and the bell rings over my head and I picture the young boy of six years old, screaming to his mother that he hates the instrument.

There’s a young man in the back who peaks his head out and tells me he’ll be with me in a moment. I tell him to take his time, that I’m simply browsing.

I walk through the store and I sit at a couple of the pianos, and think that I haven’t played one in a decade or so. I haven’t spoken to one in the same amount of time.

So I walk and rub my hands in the light dust all along the storefront and at the end, I see a note written in the dust.

Make the piano talk, or you’re no writer

I cackle with laughter, and then I go to my childhood home to fetch my mother. She opens the door and tells me I’m late.

“You’re too much like your father for your own good.”

I smile, but I hope that I’m not completely like him.

Every day that goes by is another day I live longer than one of my best friends from middle and high school. He struggled with mental health from the age of 9. That's generally what happens when you have slight Asperger's syndrome, go to public school, are so super intelligent that some kids can't keep up with how fast you talk, you have divorced parents, two sisters to feel responsible for, and an abusive dad that you live with half of every year.

This friend was very dear to my heart, since I have siblings and family members with autism and other disorders that affect your ability to do anything having to do with other people. I would have protected him with my life had I known he was hurting so much. I'd have tracked down every bully, gotten him some much needed help to deal with his dad, anything he needed, I'd have done it.

I was his confidant. He had sworn me to secrecy, and as a person who cared about him so much, I kept my oath. He would come to school and tell me about what his dad had done this time. He'd lay his head on my shoulder, and I'd tell him I was there for him, that everything was going to be alright. I treated him like my own flesh and blood. It was almost as if he was.

I caught wind a few months before what he did that he had a crush on me. He told one of his gay friends, knowing that she would support him all the way. She accidentally let the secret out though, and he was confronted by another useless bully about how he could never have a real relationship with a girl, and, as an added bonus, made a joke about out of everyone, why her? All I focused on in his one moment of true need, was tha fact that I was also being put down. I wasn't there for him like I should have been. I didn't support him, like I always swore I would.

Then a few weeks later, schools were closed indefinitely. Everyone was told to stay home, and not to go see anyone. Seeing as it was his dad's week, he was now stuck alone with his dad in the house for weeks. I told him everything would be fine, just to try and stay calm and mind his own business, so that nothing bad would happen with his dad. God, I should have told someone. I just let him go off and be trapped with his mentally and physically abusive jack of a dad.

I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't communicate with many people back then. Just the one person I had a phone number for. I looked him up in an old fashioned phone book, trying desperately to find a way to talk to him. I went walking in his neighborhood, hoping I would happen to run into him. I never did.

Then virtual school started. He was there. And nothing looked wrong. So I though he was okay. We emailed through our school account, and talked like nothing was wrong. He would tell me about how things were, and I'd tell him the latest drama with my sister. We both enjoyed our time chatting in our free time. It became a habit.

School was partially opened back up by the winter time. We were so excited because we'd both be at school at the same time, since our last names were close together. We got to ride the bus to our fancy smart people magnet school together (he clearly belonged there, but had to help me with everything, but I was not the brightest in the room, ever. In fact, it was him. He was always the smartest).

We would sit on the bus with our masks covering most of our faces, and talk. Just like old times. And that's when he decided to tell me that it was getting bad with his dad again. He told me it had been rough, but that he was handling it. Until his dad started drinking again. Then it got much, much worse than I was ever around to hear about. I didn't know what to do. I told a friend, without using names, and asked what she thought I should do. She told me to listen to him, to keep his secret until he was ready to tell someone. I didn't want to, because I knew my friend was hurting, mentally and physically, but I listened. I told no one after that.

One day we sat on the bus talking about what we wanted to study in college, what we wanted to be when we grew up. This was a day that we had a very hard math lesson. I, of course, understood none of it, and he was acing the practice tests already. That's when he told me he wanted to be a math teacher. He wanted to teach a program like the one we were in, because our teacher inspired him. I thought he would make an amazing teacher, and I told him that. He coughed a little after telling me that, so I scooted away slightly, not in a mean way, just in a covid social distancing kind of way.

He didn't come to school the next day, so I assumed he was sick. Then the weekend went by, and he wasn't in school monday or tuesday either. I assumed he was quarantined, and that he was sleeping, so that was why I hadn't heard from him. I didn't really think too deep about it. On tuesday night, I was sitting at the table doing my homework, like a responsible high school honors student, and I get a notification on my computer. It made a loud ding, since my volume was on, so my mom heard it, being a few feet away in the kitchen.

I read the message, from one of my friends who is known for being very goofy, always cracking some joke or another, sometimes very dark humor jokes.

The message said "abby did u hear what happened to m (not full name for privacy)?

I responded "no what"

She said "he's gone abby. he committed."

At first, I didn't know what she meant. I was mostly a sheltered child, and I hadn't been getting the full high school experience thus far, so I had no idea what that meant. So I responded, "what? theft?" with a laughing emoji.

She took a long time (only a few minutes but not instantly like the other messages) to respond to that one. When she did, she said, "abby i'm going to say it like this so you understand. he died. suicude. yesterday."

I read that message over and over again, even weeks after that. In the moment, I just stared at it, not able to move. I guess my mom noticed the look on my face, because she asked me what happened. I told her I needed some air. I went outside and my dad was setting a fire to burn some wood. So I went out and sat in front of it for hours, staring at the flames, thinking about him, our last conversation, his face; hoping I'd never forget a single part of him.

All of this to say, to this day, I'm not the same person I was before he was gone, but I know now how I should go about helping someone who is struggling, or at least what not to do.

And I've blamed myself so many times in the three and a half years since he's been gone, but I've learned how to cope with that pain also.

The biggest thing I've learned through all of this is that you never know what people are going through, even if you think they're telling you. Some battles can't be fought without a little courage, and giving someone that little push or glimmer of hope can save their life.

I hope that if I come across anyone else in my lifetime who struggles with some burden or weight, that I can help them carry it, or at least unload just a fraction of the baggage to make the climb possible.

Seremis wakes with a gasp, sitting up abruptly and clutching her blanket around herself.

Her roommate, Joran, blinks awake to find her just sitting, staring blankly.

“Seremis?”

She flinches with another little gasp and her eyes dart to him and around him, flickering but not really landing.

“Seremis.”

Her eyes finally meet his gaze, unblinking and wide, vulnerable and scared.

“You had another nightmare?”

Her eyes dart around again. She nods slightly and shrugs at the same time.

“Past or future?”

She twitches, but her eyes manage to stay on his face at least. “I'm…it was…I don't…can't remember.”

Joran nods. This isn't the first time. “Do you want to snuggle?”

She doesn't seem to hear him. Her eyes are searching the window like she can see through the curtains, like something is coming, like she's scared of it. For all he knows, maybe there is something out there, something only she knows about. Or maybe it's an aftershock of her nightmare.

“Seremis?”

Her gaze snaps back to his, alarmed.

He keeps his voice calm. “Do you want to snuggle?”

She stares at him, as if comprehending slowly, then tucks the blanket tighter. “I…is that…um…”

Joran breathes slowly. She's gorgeous, but her safety and health are more important. “Not like that. I told you, you have the lead on that. You said you feel safer when we're touching.”

She twitches again, blinking. “Right. Yeah. Okay. Snuggling.”

He presses his lips together to avoid smiling. “You want the edge or the wall side again?”

She wiggles backwards. “Wall.”

He nods. “Let me grab my pants.”

She nods and he watches out of the corner of his eye as she resettles all of her blankets to make room for him. He's never understood why she sleeps with so many when she overheats so easily, but it makes her happy.

When she's all settled, he snuggles in behind her until his chest is against her back and gently removes a layer of blanket. At her noise of protest, he chuckles softly and murmurs, “You will overheat if I leave it, and I'd rather not end up on the floor tonight.”

Her grumbles go quiet. After a moment she snuggles back into him.

Just before he drifts off to sleep, Joran sends a prayer to anyone listening, wishing that just once, Seremis won't be the one to suffer.

beneath this ink-bled

sleeping sky

a sweet, unraveled longing

and all the ways

i dare to think

of how i’d make you mine

the 'sped' kid in my class sat in his seat and had his face red. not with anger but with sadness. and what was everyone doing? making fun of him.."tomato!" "ew hes so weird" "isint he stupid or something?" "hes acoustic" i sat down next to him and smiled softly. "hi, im sam its lovely to meet you. may i work with you?" i spoke with kind words. he looked up at me like i was an angel sent from heaven. he nodded and moved his bag. i sat down next to him, and i noticed his dinosaur bracelet. i smiled, "i like dinosaurs to" his face lit up with excitement. his face wasint red anymore, it was smiling and had a bunch of life in it. "can i show you my collection!" i smiled knowing i made this kids day so much better. "yes id love to see it!" i said with the same energy. everyone laughed at me because i was "hanging with the autistic kid" i didint mind tho. i knew what he felt..i knew how lonely it got. i knew how much it stucked to be the only one in the class with "something wrong with you" after the bell rang that day..he walked up to me, gave me a peice of gum and then hugged me. he hugged me tight. i never really got hugs so when i got this i was taken a-back. "oh-" was all that came out. "thanks for being my frined.." he whispered. i rubbed his head and smiled, "anytime you need me" and ever sense. he followed me around school and we became really good friends. i was the only one there for him..i found out later that year i stopped him from committing suicide. be there for the ones who scream for help. even if its just a smile. give your smile to someone else without one.

I’m 6 years old. The oval-shaped river rock in my bed has long gone cold. I get out of bed and heave the rock back on top of the wood stove where it can reheat for my next bedtime.

It’s Saturday and I’m excited to go outdoors, despite the bitter cold. Today, my brothers are taking me sledding— one of my very favorite things to do in the winter.

We dress in many layers of shoddy clothing and we use several pairs of socks for gloves. Our “sleds” are any form of smooth plastic we can scavenge, but in a pinch, we use black trash bags.

As we head out the door, my older brother looks embarrassed and sad. We are sure to be teased, like always. Poor mountain kids and their lack of proper outdoor gear and “real” sleds are easy targets. At best, we are ignored and avoided, as if our poverty is somehow contagious.

We trudge on toward the sledding hill, determined to eke out every bit of joy from this day, no matter what—

A man clears his throat.

An uneasy laugh escapes a woman.

I look around the table, trying to remember what was said and by whom.

Eyes of blue and green implore me. Nicely styled hair and perfectly straightened teeth are all around. Their clothes appear boring at first glance, but actually scream old money to those who know.

My hand nervously reaches for my water glass. It brushes against my place setting: plates chilled and heated(!). I take a sip and realize the 6-year-old girl within will never cease to be impressed with tiny details such as these.

My fiancé gently squeezes my hand under the table as his family member politely repeats his question, “Do you ski? Or perhaps enjoy other winter activities?”

I’ve had to completely reinvent myself 5 major times in my life.

Each was triggered by a major life event.

But now, I am evolving and changing constantly.

And let me be clear, there is a major difference between growing and evolving.

I’ve grown every single year of my life. But only evolved in a handful of them.

Evolution is now my permanent process and the focus of my life’s work.

As it should be for all of us.

Because becoming the best version of yourself doesn’t mean just growing your current identity.

It means evolving an entirely new one.

So all last year my entire focus was on letting go.

Letting go of the need for a static identity.

Letting go of the perception of control.

Letting go of my preferences.

Letting go of my hopes.

Letting go of my desires.

And I’m, more than anything, astounded that I’ve actually been able to do it.

Happy.

Sad.

Happy.

Sad.

Hungry.

Full.

Hungry.

Full.

Not spicy at all.

...

Oh, now I'm starting to feel it...

AUUGHHH!!!

Too hot.

Too cold.

So close to being perfect...

Ugh, I messed it up.

Ahh...

Ahhh...

AHHHH!!!

...Oh, the sneeze is gone.

This will be fun!

I'm doing great.

Just a little more...

Ok, no more.

My nose itches.

My nose burns.

My nose is runny.

Sick.

School starts.

Burnout.

Winter/summer break.

Less burnt out.

Sprint.

Hold.

Push.

Final stretch.

Just five more minutes.

Just five more minutes.

Just five more minutes.

Oh shoot, it's been an hour

Energized.

Tired.

Fatigued.

Dormant.

Like.

Love.

Hate.

Alone.

I can't get better.

I hate myself.

Stop.

I can't stop.

Pretend it's fine.

It's not fine.

Everything is falling apart.

Tell nobody.

Tell nobody.

Tell nobody.

I need to tell somebody.

Anybody.

Please.

Even if they can't help.

I need to say something.

I need to scream into a pillow.

Something.

Anything.

...

...

But then it's fine again.

Check Prose.

Realize I haven't written anything in a while.

Write something.

Leave for an undisclosed period of time.

1.

“What do you think?” she says, shoving her phone in my face. It’s a picture of a shirtless man with distinguished abs, a chiseled jaw, and bright blue eyes accentuated by his fluffy brown hair.

“What do you think?” Mavis repeats. “Isn’t he so hot?” she pulls the phone back to herself so she can revel in his apparent beauty.

I shrug. “He has a face,” I say, turning back to my biology homework. Which layer of skin is the deepest?

She frowns. “You always say that. Why are you so boring?”

“I just don’t see people as hot,” I use my monotone voice. Maybe she’ll get the hint and stop talking about it.

She doesn’t. “That’s sad. You’re really missing out.”

Subcutaneous tissue, I scribble in the blank next to the question.

“Here, look at this one,” she says as she launches her phone at me again, this time with a picture of Zendaya on the screen.

“She’s pretty.”

“Pretty? You just called one of the hottest women on the planet ‘pretty’!”

“Mavis, you know I can’t tell the difference between someone being hot and being pretty.”

She continues scrolling on her phone, settling further into my couch. “It’s your sheltered childhood.” It most certainly was not. I was not that sheltered. I just had more important things to worry about than if the boy stupid enough to fire pepper spray in the back of the study hall was attractive.

“Don’t worry,” she chuckles. “You’re only 19. You’ll find someone before you graduate. I just know it. Heck, I’ll wingman for you!”

Now I make direct eye contact with her. “But what if I don’t want to find someone?”

“Oh don’t be silly, Nat! Everyone wants to find someone! That’s what makes you human!”

Trapped in a cage, a carnival barker beckoning people to view the loveless woman, an apparent oddity. Men jeer, women scowl, and children stare in awe at the monster.

“Let’s just get back to work. I have a GPA to maintain and no lover is going to help me do that.” I push the circus image out of my head and return to my worksheet. She rolls her eyes and keeps scrolling.

2.

“What do you mean you’re going on a date with him?”

Doris flaps her arms hysterically in an attempt to shush me. It doesn’t work.

“You can’t go out with him. I won’t let you!” My overprotective instinct is kicking in. I sound like my dad.

“You’re just jealous,” she pouts.

“Oh please. You know that’s not anywhere near the truth.”

“But Stuart is really nice. He said he likes my eyes.”

“I guarantee you he has tried that line on several women before you. Doris, please. He’s not worth it.”

“Nat, would you stop being so cynical for five seconds? You’re not the one going out tonight!”

“But I will be the one who will have to console you after he inevitably breaks your heart.” I’m not cynical. I’m practical. And, practically speaking Doris, dating this man is a bad idea.

“Well, part of life is getting your heart broken. That’s a risk I have to take to find a person who loves me.” But I love you. I love you and all our friends. Deeply, passionately, steadfastly. Isn’t that enough?

I look into her eyes, and they clearly show she is smitten. Her logic has given way to hopeless romance, and nothing I say will change that. Love, you didn’t do right by me. Rosemary Clooney, White Christmas. Count your blessings instead of sheep.

I sigh. “If it starts going south, I’ll bail you out.”

She throws her arms around me and jumps with a gleeful smile. “Thank you!” She’ll never listen to me. But my love for her will stay regardless.

3.

I unlock my dorm door, set my stuff on the living room table, and why is there a man on my couch what is he doing here?

“John, this is my roommate Natalie. Nat, this is John, my boyfriend,” Clara says with a smile. She’s sitting next to him on the couch. His arm around her shoulder. A smug grin on his face. I can tell. I always can. His smile would look genuine if his eyes weren’t filled with mockery. He’s laughing at me. I stole your friend. Your love is now worthless to her. Now you can’t even rest in your own home without the reminder of how broken you are, you loveless woman you.

“Nice to meet you John.” My monotone voice greets him. To her credit, Clara catches it. She frowns at me. Please be civil, her eyes say. I nod and decide to make a tactical retreat to my bedroom.

When I hear our front door open and close three hours later, I pop back out.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes, Mom.” Ignore it. Push past it.

“I thought we had agreed to alert each other when we had guests over, especially male guests.”

“I’m sorry, he kinda just showed up. I opened the door and he was there with flowers and takeout.”

Huh?

“Did you tell him where you lived? Did he stalk you? If he doesn’t live in this building how did he get in here?” How is she okay with this?

“He didn’t stalk me. A friend of his lives here and crossed me in the hall once, so he let John in when he’d said he wanted to surprise me.”

A tall man cloaked in shadow slinking in the hall in the dead of night. Hiding in the closet. Our closet. A Cheshire grin, he’s got a knife, it’s in the air, I push Clara out of the way and—

“How long.”

“A week now.”

A week?!

“And you thought that gave him clearance to be in our apartment?”

“Like I said, he snuck in.”

“And you don’t see that as creepy? A red flag?”

“It was cute!”

“There are people out there who believe Jeffrey Dahmer was cute!”

We argue. I’ve never had an argument with any of my friends like this. I’m actually angry. That’s not normal. But my anger is born of fear. Fear for her. Clara says once I get a boyfriend, I’ll understand. I retort that it will be a cold day in hell before I let a man put his hands on me. Her horrified face puts an end to my anger, and I’m back in the circus cage.

I run to my car and cry for forty-two minutes. I come back inside and apologize. She doesn’t need to apologize—I forgave her immediately, because that’s what I do for people I love.

4.

“I’m never getting married,” I declare to my mother.

She looks up from folding laundry. “You’ll change your mind someday.”

“I don’t think I will. I know I’d be a horrible mother, and an even worse wife.” The idea of raising noisy germy creatures is unappealing already, but the pressure of preparing them for life without traumatizing them would kill me. And I have too many flaws to settle and be a housewife. I can’t cook, I can barely call the doctor for myself, and I always forget to clean my apartment. No, the only person who should have to live with me is me.

“I want grandkids,” Mom says.

“That’s what my sisters are for.” One has a boyfriend already, and the other has had three crushes in four months, so her romantic inclinations already work better than mine. I’ve already told them I’m going to be their kids’ cool wine aunt.

“But you’re such a sweet girl, Natalie. It would be a waste if you didn’t settle down with a husband. Trust me. You’ll meet a guy that will bring you so much joy you can’t help but wish to spend your life with him.”

“But I’ve never dated, never had a boyfriend or even a crush. I’m 20. I should have felt something like that by now. But I haven’t.”

She hands me a stack of towels. “You will soon. You have to. It’s what makes us human.”

And the circus barker is back and laughing over my shoulder.

“But isn’t familial or friendly love enough?” My voice whimpers against my will. “I love you, and I love my friends. Surely that type of love is enough?” I don’t know why I’m saying this to my married mother. I already know what she’ll say.

“Romantic love is different. It fulfills you in a way no other love can. And humans are naturally inclined to seek out that type of love. If you don’t feel romantic love, then you’re missing out on an integral part of your humanity.”

Come one, come all! See the loveless woman! Isn’t she absolutely detestable? Her own mother doesn’t believe she’s human!

5.

Doris needs our help, a text from Mavis reads.

Cassandra standing in terror, crying out to the Chorus, shrieking how she will die once she enters the house. Prophesying the death of Agamemnon. Violence, blood, vengeance. No one hears her. No one believes her. I don’t have to ask what happened. I change into a cozy hoodie, grab some instant hot chocolate packs, and prep my mom purse.

Be there in ten, I reply.

When I get there Clara is sitting on the bed, hugging the sobbing bundle that is my wonderful, kindhearted Doris. Poor thing.

Clara looks at me. Don’t you dare say it, her eyes say. Wasn’t planning on it, my nod replies. I’m not one to boast bitter victories.

Doris now notices me. She hiccups and reaches her arms out to me. The mattress sinks closer to the floor as I sit on her other side and clutch her to my chest. My heart aches for her. She brought this on herself, my logic says. But my compassion and devotion ignore the logic.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” I whisper. She sobs harder, her tears soaking into my hoodie. Woe to the man who broke so pure a heart. If I ever lay eyes on him I will break his spine and fashion his skull into a cereal bowl. “He doesn’t deserve you, okay? If he comes anywhere near you again, I’ll kill him. You got that?” she nods. She knows I mean it. Because I love her.

A few moments later Nora and Katie show up with pints of ice cream. We curl up and the six of us watch The Office, and my soul feels light and fluttery at the realization that everyone I love and trust is in the same room right now.

6.

Albert and I meet under one of the giant maple trees. He’s slightly out of breath from sprinting across the quad, but he’s smiling at me. It feels nice.

“You wanted to ask me something?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, I did.” He straightens back up and clears his throat. “Natalie, as you know we have been friends for six months now.”

“Uh huh.” We met near the end of the fall semester at a Super Smash Bros tournament. I kicked his ass in the final and he was a very good sport about it. Then this semester we’ve been sharing a literature class. I smile, remembering our witty banter making our classmates laugh, grabbing coffee while we work on our essays, walking to the cafeteria together. He’s the first guy friend I’ve ever had.

“And I’ll be honest, I’ve really appreciated getting to hang out with you.”

My smile widens. “I have too!” Images pop in my head. Him and I watching movies, late night drives, hanging out. A strong hug when I’m sad. A shoulder to rely on. An equal. Someone who cares about me the same way I care about him. Finally reciprocated. I want him in my life. I want to devote myself to him like I do all my friends. Take a bullet for him. Pick him up from the club at two in the morning when he’s drunk. Buy him ramen when his card declines. I love our friendship, and I want to keep loving him like that.

He takes a deep breath. “And that has lead me to realize something about myself.”

“Okay?” I’m getting a little bit confused now.

“I. . . I love you.”

What?

“I’ve had a crush on you since we worked on that presentation together.”

No.

“And I wanted to just tell you this to clear the air and maybe see if you felt the same?”

No God please no!

He notes the look on my face. “What’s the matter?”

A man approaches the cage with a key. Inserting it in the lock, staring at me expectantly.

“I. . . I’m sorry, Albert. I love you, but as a friend.” I truly do. Please accept this love. This love is enough right?

“Oh.”

My heart breaks.

The man throws the key across the room and storms out, and the barker looks at me with a wicked grin.

“But I really love hanging out with you!” I quickly say. Stay with me please. I love you, friend. “I just. . . My studies are super important to me, I need to keep them my main priority.”

He frowns. “Yeah, it sure was a priority when we were hanging out.”

“Albert—"

He turns and starts walking away. “Sorry, I have to go now. Thanks for everything.”

And the circus barker whispers in my ear, “Once and forever the loveless woman.”

7.

“Am I broken?”

Nora pops back around the corner. “What?”

“Am I broken because I don’t understand normal love?”

“What do you mean ‘normal love’?” She reenters the room and sits next to me on the couch.

“Romance. I’ve never understood why a person would want to devote their life to only one person when they can devote their life to all their friends.”

Nora shrugs. “A romantic partner is special.”

“Is it so special that if I don’t feel it or want it, I’m less than human?”

She thinks for a moment. “No,” she says resolutely.

I turn to her. “I don’t believe you.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

I scoff. “You have a boyfriend. All of our friends are dating. Even Doris got over her heartbreak and moved onto another man! You cannot tell me that romance isn’t important.”

“You’re right. I can’t.”

“Well there you—”

“But I also can’t tell you that it’s more important than other types of love. And I certainly will not tell you that you’re broken for not wanting it.”

What?

“Natalie, you not being interested in dating doesn’t make you broken. It makes you you. You give so much of yourself to the people you care about, and your ability to be content with your friendships is so inspiring.”

“Really?” I cannot believe what she’s saying.

“Yes! Your passion, your level of care, your honesty, your loyalty! You are such a wonderful friend, and such a blessing. You give me and the rest of our friends so much, and you make it so obvious you love us in the way only you can! You’re always there for us, and I love you for that.”

My world stops.

A woman runs up and punches the circus barker.

Natalie stares at my shocked expression. “What? What did I say?”

“You. . . love me?”

Her face looks puzzled. “Of course I do. You know that, right?”

My face turns red. “Well, yeah. But you’re the first friend to use those words.”

We sit there in awkward silence. Then she leans over and hugs me.

“I love you so much, Natalie. You are the best friend I could ever ask for, and I hope that you know that you bring so much joy to all our lives, and I thank you for being in my life.”

The woman grabs the cage door, rips it open, and pulls me out.

And now I sit, a loveless woman, but not in a way that matters.

Being a virgin for 27 years, Yara never thought of having a man in her life. While everything seems perfectly fine in her career, the talking from other people has disturbed her mind lately.

"You are too naive", said her friend. "Come on, the world is changing. No one will judge you for taking a man to your house or being with anyone. What are you looking for?"

The older the woman is, the more rushed it will be. She had never seriously dated anyone before. Even when someone tried to touch her, she refused it. She was born into a religious family with a good background, she was told not to make any mistakes that make her family down. She had followed the rules all of her life, and the thought of having an affair, just because she is still single is somewhat unacceptable to her mind. "I am just too comfortable with who I am today", she says.

"You missed the biggest pleasure in the world!", her friend continued, "what is the meaning of rules anyway? In the end, when you are alone and sad, you sometimes disturb me. You need someone else, I can not do it for you."

Her friend's talking makes her think that is the end of their friendship. She learned two things: she made her friend feel disturbed all this time, and also that they had different values. Their friendship has been running for 4 years, and it seems that Yara still prefers to be alone. So Yara gives her best smile, "You know, I had seen my Mom crying because my father was too busy for us. I saw my grandmother, give all of her wealth to my grandpa, but it was used for gambling. I saw my schoolmate, married early because of the accident, and her husband was a drunk without work. I saw my favorite couple of celebrities were divorced because of 3rd person. I keep wondering about love in all my journey. It is not that I don't need a man in my life. I know I am, but I don't want a cheap love that makes me feel a momentary pleasure. I want a real thing. Am I wrong to keep the rules? Am I wrong to keep myself for the fittest person I will trust my life to?" Yara started to cry. "Look, I am sorry if you feel disturbed. You were a good friend to me, but if you keep pushing me to be with someone, please refrain."

They were both silent until her friend said "We both are bad at talking about the hard topic". and They laugh together.