The sound of sobbing wakes me a few minutes before three almost every morning for the next week. Every single time, I think it’s me, crying from a terrible dream, wispy remembrances of Josh walking away from me. But I touch my cheeks. They’re dry. My eyes close, not that it makes much of a difference. It simply trades darkness for bleakness.

The ghost of a meteor darts behind my shut eyes now. The sight is mocking: See? See? You thought you could be normal, but Freak Girl, what the hell were you thinking?

That was no fragment of a dream I heard, but the sound of my fracturing reality.