Instead of going straight to the shelter, I find myself sitting in the bathroom at the library once again. I’m huddled in the corner with the key clenched in my grip. The door is locked. The air conditioner runs like white noise, but it doesn’t blot out the storming inside my head.
Until now, I’ve kept certain thoughts locked up in a box.
And still now, I remind myself these thoughts may not be true.
But at the same time, now, I wonder if I should face what my mind has labeled sick—what it’s quarantined inside my brain.
The door handle jiggles back and forth. I make myself known by shuffling my feet. I also clear my throat and slide my bag toward me, across the tile.
Then I unzip.
And zip.
Unzip.
And zip.
Reaching inside the main compartment, I poke my fingers through the hole in the lining and pull out the card I got from that woman at the shelter. Healing starts the moment we feel heard. I cry for the first time in I don’t even know when.
For the loss of a best friend.
(And I don’t mean Shelley.)