when I was waiting for the bombs to fall and for the world to break apart, an eggshell held in the palm of my hand, you took it away. you said it didn't have to be that way. everything doesn't need to work in news reports and aching links to whether we will live tomorrow. and, well, I believed you, because we talk to each other every day, words falling up and down my wrist, heavy with optimism.
I can't believe I haven't seen you in a year.
it's funny to think that we might pull ourselves out of this. vacation plans build up in my head with the ease of those 2004 reality show supermodels, glittering world peace at the camera. come on, that was funny, but you laugh less now. it's a mutual thing: if you can read statistics to me, I can make terrible jokes, deadpan, across a virtual office table. we are trying to stay alive, stay together, the only ways we know.
It will all heal, because I want you in my skies.
a brief respite and I am listening to The Cure at 3 am, watching you unlock the door. we are still struggling, but I don't mind. the Wright Brothers crashed planes before they ever flew. it is better now that you put the blades in the kitchen drawers, pour the rat poison down the drain with a loving smile. I welcome the fall. I welcome it with my bloody neck cradling your face, wait for the wind to tangle in my hair. pasta for dinner, a better life glinting in the steam. We are only children. The evening never, ever ends.
Syna Majumder is a sixteen-year-old high schooler from India.