I don’t know. Where do you go when you’ve built something that is now gone?

I keep just going in circles: Jim’s, Tara and Kate’s, my aunt’s.

They’re all sick of me.

How can someone take something from you and say it’s yours when they’ve never even met you?

I know their name is on it. I know how the world works.

But I don’t understand how they can lock the doors when they’ve never smelled the way it smells when you go on vacation and come back and notice it in a way you can’t usually. The blend of laundry and cooking and sleepy sweat from the bedroom.

I don’t know. People keep making weird noises about how it’s all up hill from here, how you have to hit rock bottom but rock bottom is supposed to feel solid, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I feel like I have something to push my feet against, something to support me while I climb back out?

This doesn’t feel solid.

This doesn’t feel supportive.

I feel lost at sea. I feel like those nightmares I used to have where you’re falling and you land on your bed with a jolt, except I’m just in the jolt part and it’s felt this way for months.

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