This Room I'm In.

They all call it home, this room I’m in. It is too small for me, for my life. My shoes can hardly hit the floor—being here makes my feet itch, itch for adventure, for the world, for anything outside this room. A jail cell that I entered voluntarily, trapped by the promise of homemade dinners and familiarity. Nothing has changed here, even the commercials on TV are the same. But I’m not. The crazy dreamer left to pursue a dream, one that doesn't include this bedroom. The flowers on the desk—an attempt by a boy to resurrect a love that died a long time ago—make my chest collapse in anger, annoyance, and pity. There are so many things in here, so many things I don’t want or need. The suitcases scattered on the floor beg to be repacked. Their purpose is to go, just like mine. These blue and gray walls are too calm for me, the colors too stable. I get claustrophobic inside these walls, anxious to open the door and run. They call it home, this room I’m in. But I prefer to be homeless.

Rule #12

When something causes more anger, stress, or grief than it does happiness, it is time to make a change.

November 1

Everything. Nothing. All at once. Always, never.

No goddamn stagnancy. My enemy, my rival. Keep walking.

No standing, no stopping. No strings, no strings, no strings.

No entanglements. No holding hands.

Don’t hold me back.

Searching? No. Looking.

Not looking for something. Looking for anything, I suppose.

My eyes are aware, my feet are in constant motion.

I want to take it all, I want it to take me. Encompass me in statues oceans and cobblestone streets.

Churches and thousands of years. My hands will become the eighteen hundreds. And my body a gargoyle. My mind will be a tourist, a raven, a rat on the street. I will scamper and scrounge until I am dead. No strings, no tangles, no holding hands. I will spin a globe and go where it stops. I will run and run until my feet burn. And then I will run some more. I will forget my name, and get a new one. Something exotic, or something plain. I will lose my clothing and run naked. I will learn to be friends with the dirt roads and the sheep and the stalks of corn. And then I will find the city. The city with no limits.

Don’t tell me where to go.

Run

and she told me

at that moment two universes

shifted, fell, crossed.

an earthquake of hearts,

a hiccup in the orbit of two souls.

and I swore to outrun whatever was the cause.

i swore to not be caught

in a crosswind of heartbeats.

and she said

it is impossible.

a forever altered axis

cannot be straightened. and she said

a collision of unaware heartstrings

cannot be untangled.

and I swore to outrun whatever was the cause.

Untitled

There is nothing I can leave

that I can’t find again.

Even love can come and go.

I need not clutch a friend.

Mountain, cloud

Lake or tree.

They will be wherever I am.

I need not stay for them or you.

I can always find one again.

My head has tired of this pillow,

My body of this bed.

My eyes have tired of this sky.

My feet of this dead end.

My mind has tired of these thoughts

Of weary discontents.

I try to run, but they catch up

As soon as I tire again.

Ah, shucks.

Going to sleep with a smile on my face.

Big steps bring big surprise.

:)

Hello.

Goodbye friends.

This is the last time.

I have to. I have to say goodbye. I have to stop looking at the pictures, stop picturing myself in them.

Goodbye.

At some point I have to close the door. I have to stop looking back. It was wonderful, perfect, and now it is done.

Goodbye.

Some are harder than others. Some are surprisingly easy.

One was surprisingly hard. Why did that make me cry? Lost chances, yes. Regret, yes. No, not lost chances. They were there. Untaken chances. Skipped chances. Dismissed chances. I thought the chances would come back around. That I would meet them on the other side. But I never got to the other side, never got the chance again.

Goodbye.

Then an unexpected hello, amongst the goodbyes.

His Irish accent hit my cheek, ‘your beautiful,’ he whispered. His curly hair, his bluegray eyes. My head on his chest, his warm palm on my thigh. A drunken kiss, a dizzy stumble. A playful shove, a teasing smirk. Do you like people? I quite like you.

And then that too turned into a goodbye.

Goodbye.

Perhaps I would have preferred not to see some of them ‘one last time.’ Now that is how I will think of them. Leaning on the wall, lining up for one last hug. Forget that. Remember them laughing and screaming and running and climbing. Remember that.

But for some, that ‘one last time’ wasn’t just a hug goodbye or a ‘good luck, kid’. It was a memory, a wonderful night that I wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world. It was a perfect goodbye. And maybe for those few, this isn’t the last time. I hope to see again those few again, and not just to visit. I hope that my path crosses theirs and we hike together for awhile.

But for now, or forever…

Goodbye.

Thanks, Universe.

I know I didn't complete Blog Every Day in August. But if August had been, Change All Of Your Plans, Move To A Brand New Place, And Start Something Entirely New Month, I definitely would have succeeded. And I think that is good enough for me.

I had a dream the other night. I dreamt I was moving into my room at Western, chatting with Cora and Jamie, walking around campus. Then I woke up in Rimview 117 in Billings, Montana. And all of a sudden I thought everything that has happened in the last 3 weeks was a dream. I thought real life wasn’t real, I thought Western was still happening, and I felt relieved. And then I realized I was wrong. That day started off with a sad Amelia.

It is interesting the way the Universe pushes people in certain directions. I had thought many times about how, at this point in my life, I can go anywhere, do anything. How I can adventure and meet new people and live in new places. How I am not tied down to anything or anyone. I am free. But I was set to go back to comfort, to friends, to Western. Then it was like the Universe told me, “Yo, Amelia. Your thoughts are right, but you are too much of a wimp to take the risk. You even created options for yourself, you gave yourself somewhere to explore. But you won’t do it on your own. So I’m just going to do it for you. Have fun, kid!”

For some things, I thank the Universe. Soccer, for example. I love it. I love playing every day. I loved playing 3 times a day. I love getting to wear a Rocky Soccer shirt, and carrying around a Rocky Soccer Backpack. I love being a part of the team. I love winning and I love losing. I was afraid I would never play college soccer, and that I would regret it. So thank you Universe, for saving me from a regret. And thank you Amelia, for setting yourself up with this option.

I thank the Universe, also, for freeing me up. Let me explain this. When you love your home, it is easy to stay. But if you stay, you will never experience other homes, other places. You will never know what you may be missing out on. Sometimes it is okay to stay. I think one of life’s searches is for a true home. Not necessarily a long lasting, permanent home, but a true home. One where things are right. A place where you just know that there is no better place for you right then. If you have found one of those, I certainly would not try to tempt you into looking for something else. But I did tempt myself. As absolutely wonderful as Western was, I don’t think my search is done. Or perhaps I am just not ready for it to be done. Maybe I found what I was searching for, but I didn’t want to stop searching. It is almost as though I was being tied down by something amazing. And the Universe untied me. Now I can continue my search. I can go wherever I want. Montana this year, maybe Europe next. I am free.

Maybe that is backward thinking. But sometimes I like the illogical.

I have already thanked the Universe a bit. Kind of in the way you thank your mom when she makes you do something you are afraid to do, because she knows it is good for you. I know at some point I will thank the Universe whole-heartedly and honestly. But I’m not quite there yet. I’m still a little bit stuck on Red Square, the VU, the Horseshoe Café. I’m stuck on the rain, stuck on Ethna, stuck on the idea of having a blender in our apartment to make margaritas. I’m stuck on Boulevard Park and the campfires. On Halloween plans and robotics. I’m stuck on How I Met Your Mother and climbing trees. I am still just a little bit stuck on all the plans I made.

Once I unbind myself from those plans, I will be able to thank the Universe a little bit more. Let go Amelia. Let go Amelia. Let go Amelia. Forget about Birnam Wood. Forget about engineering. Forget about working in Old Main. And forget about that goddamn blender! Forget, forget, forget. Only about the plans though. Don’t forget your roomie. Don’t forget the trees or the rain. Don’t forget crayons. Don’t forget smashing or Seattle. Don’t forget that trees hate shoes. Don’t forget the bunked desks or the curtain door. Don’t forget decorating Johnny or Silent day. Don’t forget being Ray Charles or camping. Don’t forget the troll or your ability to give directions to places you don’t know you are going. Don’t forget the splashy rocks. Don’t forget your friends, Amelia. And please, please, please do not forget how lucky you were to experience Western your freshman year. Don’t forget the memories you’ve made, but let go of the ones you planned on making. Please dear, it will make things much easier.

I know I need to let go. I won’t be able to thrive and experience here if I’m always wondering about somewhere else. So maybe that is what this blog is. Me reminiscing, me being sad, and then me letting go. Western was a wonderful experience. I couldn’t have asked for better. But now it is time to move on.

Goodbye Washington—I’m sure we’ll hang out again soon.

Hello Montana, hello new home. It is great to meet you, I’m sure we will be good friends.

A poem I wrote awhile ago.

Angel in Red

As she stands back and watches

her life go up in flames,

she remember the good times

long with the pain

of her romance, her heartbreak,

and the child she bore—

the child engulfed

in the thunderous roar.

Her tears hit the pavement

and quickly dry,

just like her life will

if her little boy dies.

She wants to protect him

like a mother should.

Protect his smile, his dimples,

his sweet childhood.

She can hear him crying

if she closes her eyes;

she looks up and screams

at the god of the skies.

Then a man goes in,

all dressed in red.

"I'll get your boy out,"

is all that he says.

She prays and she hopes

that they come out alive,

but when the flames grow

her hopes take a dive.

What if they don't make it?

She starts to cry:

I'd have no reason to live

if my little boy died.

She sits through the agony,

the pain, the unknown.

She imagines the worst—

her son dying alone.

She makes herself think

of what he last said,

"I love you," he told her,

before he laid down in bed.

Then out of the flames,

the red dressed angel appears.

With a limp body in his arms,

her only hopes turn to fears.

As a single tear falls,

"I'm sorry," he says.

The fireman hands her the body

of her little boy, dead.

I woke up at home today.

For over a year I wrote every single night. I would write where I woke up that morning, and whatever struck me as memorable from that day. I was really afraid that I would forget a day. Memorable things happen every day, but there is no way to remember them. And I was afraid that if I didn’t remember at least something from everyday, then that day was a waste. So I made myself remember by writing each day. It was never much. A few sentences at most. But man, it was fun to go back and look. To remember the little things about each day that I would have forgotten, no doubt.

Then a few knocks on the door and a police search pretty much flipped my world upside down. A whirlwind of secrets were exposed, and my life became a mess. And for some reason I stopped writing every day. I have tried to start a few times since then, and have gone a month or two at different times. But I was never able to make it last. I wish I would. I loved being able to think about each day and decide what was worth remembering and reminiscing. So, since it’s actually no longer August 5^th, I am going to pretend I wrote this an hour ago. And since I don’t really have anything to write about, I am going to reuse my old habits. Readers, all three of you, this will certainly not be of much interest to you, but someday I will reread this and remember august 5^th fondly.

Today I woke up at home, to a phone call from my momma, and a text from Heather, Travis, and Max. I had lunch with Travis at subway. We talked about his nephew who started doing meth. He wished he could help his nephew. I left and he got off work early so I went back. We had coffee with my dad at star bucks, I got a strawberries and crème frap. Then we smashed with max. It was wonderful J his car is so so broken though, which was so so sad. We took the back mountain roads, and it started to rain. It was so pretty though. Conversation about guard rails on uphills, and about T’s half brother in law’s death. Then we had dinner and a conversation about us, and what will happen when I leave, and about him wanting to weld. I will miss him, it was a really nice conversation. Then I came home, saw my financial aid from western, had a sad conversation with my roommate, talked to Jon and Toby, and watched TV. It was a really nice day with Travis, but a very sad day as well. Now I am sleepy.

I always handwrote my daily memories, and I never ever wrote as much as I just did. But typing is faster I suppose. I have to be up early. So goodnight blogworld.

I was wrong.

I’ve realized where I was wrong. You can only build a path as far as you have already walked. It won’t get longer until you proceed. I thought the path I built was a sure thing. That I could follow it as far as a wanted. But I guess that is the thing about life; you can plan, you can build yourself a nice safe trail that will lead right to your goal, but in the end, that path could collapse, the plan could tumble. Before you are ready to step off the path, it can throw you off. Decide it doesn’t want you anymore. Toss you into a fast flowing river prepared to push you around, shove your face on rocks, and spit you out onto shore wherever it sees fit.

I thought I could build myself a path, and that I was allowed to stay on it as long as I wanted. And that when I was ready, I’d create a new path, and the old trail would send me off with a few falling leaves and a nice sunset. Lucky for me I had stepped off the path for a bit. I was hanging out in an intersection, perhaps. I could go straight and continue on my path. I could turn left, and head for Montana. I could have even turned right, and stayed in the good ‘ol CO.

Then out of nowhere, while I was in this intersection, the path ahead of me crumbled. I could no longer afford to go straight, even if I wanted to.

It was strange. Just minutes before the path ahead collapsed, I had been toeing its line. About to put weight onto my foot. About to choose Western. Will I regret it, mom, if I go to Western? Would you be disappointed if I chose not to play soccer? Would I be disappointed? She answered them all with a NO. And then just before I planted my foot, the trail crumbled in front of me. Beautiful Bellingham sailed away, the perfect roommate waved goodbye. DANGER, DO NOT PASS replaced the This Way To Safety signs.

At least I wasn’t on the path when it crumbled. At least I have somewhere else to go. What if I hadn’t stepped off the path? Would I be tumbling through rapids right now, with nowhere to go? I would be a wreck. A lost, desperate, wreck, with nowhere to go. Fortunately, something told me to look away from the way I thought my life would go. Picking which path was stressful, hard, and exciting. But it looks like the universe picked for me. My mommy taught me to trust the universe, so I will. I sure hope it made a good choice.

Immaturity takes over Amelia's fingers.

You think blaming me is going to help. You think that if it is all my fault, then you will feel better about yourself. You won’t have to look at what you did. You won't have to think about the problems you created. You won't have to take yourself off of your pedestal and realize that maybe you were part of the problem. If you blame me you won’t have to take him off of his pedestal, either. You can keep thinking of him as the perfect little boyfriend. The one that loved you. The one that never did anything wrong. The one that actually enjoyed spending every night of every weekend crammed in a little dorm room with you, watching television.

Relationships are supposed to be put to the test. Strong relationships are supposed to tumble and fall and not break. Your relationship was full of cracks. Cracks just waiting to spread into complete destruction. Cracks that had nothing to do with me. And then your relationship fell. It tumbled down the hill, it flew off the cliff. And when it landed, it was as broken as your poor little heart. Is that really my fault? Perhaps I pushed your relationship down the hill, maybe I made it tumble and fall. But if it hadn’t been full of cracks, it would have survived the fall. It is not my responsibility that it broke. I was his friend. He pushed your relationship down the hill just as much as I did. I didn't ask him to break up with you. I didn’t talk bad about you. I didn’t tell him he could do better. I didn’t kiss him like you were afraid I would do. I was his friend. Blaming me keeps you from having to take any responsibility for the cracks in your relationship. Blaming me keeps you from admitting that maybe he wasn't as perfect as you thought he was. That maybe he did something wrong. You can pretend that if it hadn’t been for me there would have never been any problems. That he would have never broken up with you. That you two would have lived happilyevereverafter. But the truth is, there would have been other problems. There would have been another girl, or another issue, or another reason to fight. There were cracks. Cracks, cracks, cracks. Someone, something would have given your relationship a nice, firm shove. Your relationship was bound to tumble, fall, and break. Because it had cracks before I even came along. It had cracks that had nothing to do with me.

I wonder.

This is bound to be one of my less successful blogs. But since I am blogging every day in August (thanks to Heather), I’ll have lots of chances to make up for it.

I wonder what they talked about before drugs and alcohol.

I wonder what would have happened if I had picked the other guy.

I wonder where I will be sleeping in two weeks.

I wonder why my head hurts so bad.

I wonder I wonder I wonder.

I wonder why I am worried so much about their lives.

I wonder why I am so confident in my own.

I wonder what name I would choose for myself, if I had to pick a name.

I wonder I wonder I wonder.

I’m going to bed.

The Road Less Traveled.

Right now I stand in this limbo, this undefined territory. This place with no foreshadowing, because even I don’t know which path I’ll pick next. I can’t seem to stay away for long. I could pretend I don’t like this, but who am I kidding? I put myself here. Over and over and over and over. I am comfortable in the discomfort, content in the unknown.

When I hike, I don’t like to stay on the trail. I like to explore, to find nature that I wasn’t suppose to find, to climb trees that I wasn’t suppose to climb. Someone made a path that assures a safe trip. A wonderful, beautiful, physically taxing, and safe trip. But safety isn’t always best, is it? Safety lacks risks, it lacks guts, it lacks challenge. It lacks the opportunity to see things you didn’t know you were looking for, to experience things you didn’t know you were missing out on.

I once built myself a path. It led to a graduation in blue and silver, an honors diploma handed to me by George Mariz, and intermural soccer the whole way through. This path was marked with beautiful sights. A roommate anyone would dream of having, a job that would get me killer recommendations, a town full of opportunities and beauty, and a group of friends who said NO to nothing. This path seems pretty perfect, no? At one point, this path was only a few steps long. It included nothing more than a check mark next to I AM ATTENDING and a newly bought bed set. Somehow those few steps turned into a beautifully organized, brilliant home. But it had no forks, no smaller paths breaking off. And it was marked with signs: This way to Safety.

I don’t like to stay on the trail. I like to explore. And somewhere between the I can’t wait to go back and the I wouldn’t trade Western for anything, I glanced away from my destination, from the blue and silver graduation. And what I saw was alluring. I saw myself on a team, with a coach and a soccer bag, getting onto an airplane to fly to a game. I saw myself warming up, a college logo on my chest. I saw myself eating, breathing, sleeping soccer. I saw sprinting, lifting, panting. I felt my quads burning and my hands tingling. And so I started a new path. Right now, that one is only a few steps long. It isn’t marked with beautiful Bellingham, it doesn’t have the perfect roommate, and it doesn’t come with the dream job. But my last path, the one that would be so easy to hop back onto, was pretty barren when it was just a few steps long. There is nothing to say that a new path couldn’t become just as beautiful, as tantalizing, as amazing, as the old path. Is there?

I stand here, not knowing whether I will charge ahead at the unknown, or turn around and take the path I already created. I stand here, not knowing where I will sleep for the next nine months, and I am content. I am happy I have this choice to make, happy that I followed a passion to create these options for myself. And I am happy because I know that no matter which path I take, I will gain something wonderful in place of what I may lose. There is no bad option here. Taking the old path would be a relief. A wonderful, fun, exciting relief. I would not be unhappy if I hopped back on. I am positive of this. I think, though, that if I turned around, I would wonder where that small, desolate, dirt path would have taken me, what it may have turned into. I would question what sights I wasn’t seeing, what wonders I wasn’t experiencing. And who is to say that I can’t turn around if my new path totally sucks?

What happens what I close my eyes?

Sometimes I close my eyes I think about all the possibilities. I think about the grass and I think about the chalk I use to play with on my sidewalk. I think about hopscotch and I think about beer. I think about my grandma and going to the bead store. I think about sitting on top of the jungle gym, a memory that I’ve always had but has no context. I think about a paintbrush and the power of words. I think about the frog that sat outside my window and I think about my letter jacket, for some reason. I think about max and tennis balls on fire. I think about crying. I think about crying. I think about crying. I think about the old man who lives at the halfway house. And how he walks around, in his old man clothes. How could he be a criminal, still worthy of being babysat? I think about crafts I made with Ian and I think about mosquito bites. I think about the tire swing at my uncle john’s house and I think about getting lost in Portland. I think about Katarina and how my mom called her Kat but everyone else called her Kit. I think about Folgers coffee and how my mom used to make rice crispies every day. I think about the time I played hockey when my mom was gone. I got hurt but I couldn’t tell her because I wasn’t supposed to be playing. I think about moving. I think about the yellow tank top that I had forgotten about. And I think about my aunt Lynne Anne. I think about road trips to Nebraska. And harry potter. I think about falling asleep, probably because my eyes are closed. I think about the neighbors I have had. Rick, Bonnie, Barbara. Katie and her family. Jon and Ino. I think about porcelain dolls, and a scary clown I got for my birthday. I think about the gecko I found with Brent, and how short that kid was. I think about basketball, I thought I loved it. I think about concussions, and the girl that died a few weeks ago. I think about curtains, and bunked desks. I think about salsa mixed with sour cream and an extreme feeling of guilt. I think about a window and a Friday night—another memory with no context. I think about art and face painting. I think about the Halloween carnival, and my first kiss. I think about wall ball—at St. Johns, in Washington, and just a few days ago. I think about Travis. I think about skinny dipping. I think about Beaverton, and the say my mom told me Matt was leaving. I think about my pink soccer ball, and my black one. I think about dishwasher I forgot to load, and how much I miss my mom when I’m not at home. I think about fire. I think about max, again. I think about newspaper class and soft pretzels. I think about cheetos and cheese, and so I think about max, again. I think about my first day at Turner. I couldn’t find the gym, but Kara helped me. I think about Brittany and hope she is ok. I think about the Nuggets game. And contact lenses. I think about the red scarf and the leaves that I crunched. I think about walking around the playhouse. How old was I? I think about those two big white dogs. I think about that mall that is in my dreams, and the flamingo. I think about Italy, the bellhop, and the rainy day. I think about playing cards with Kyla, then watching the third wheel. I think about how I never slept, and now that is all I do. I think about my first interview, and my first day at work. I think about the first time I saw Travis. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I think about the people who have confronted suicide in my presence. I thank the universe for the way those confrontations turned out. I think about my dad and the bottle of Vicoden in my drawer. I think about the words I want to define myself, and the ones that do. I think about the way my stomach sank earlier, only to float up in confusion and surprise. I think about his lips on mine and his hands gripping my sides. I think about the stupid smiley face balloon. And Hanna Sudbeck who stole my lollipops. I think about being called four-eyes by someone with glasses and I think about Brandon Zigray. I think about Bobcat and the trains. I think about the power of light. I think about when my stepdad bought our TV, and when I hugged him at his sister’s funeral. He was wearing a maroon shirt and he thanked me. I think about the butterfly that flew right past my nose and I think about the little tractor sprinkler. I think about max again. He was plowed like a tractor. I think about the blue hoodie, and the turquoise socks. I think about Hood River and the wedding. I think about gymnastics and the Chilson Center. I think about Wyoming and Tesch. I think about fabric shopping, and I think about the letters I have written. I think about the northern lights. And I think about crying. And I think about the clouds and the sky and the stars and the sun and the universe. And I think about the possibilities. I close my eyes and I think and I think and I think. I remember and I think and I remember and I remember. And I smile and I frown and I think and I think and I think. And I remember. And I think and I remember because I never want to forget. I never want to forget to remember. And I never want to forget to think about the possibilities.

I thought it was gone.

I thought it was gone. That stomach twisting, that fist clenching. That quickening heartbeat that makes me want to dig my nails into something, anything. I thought it was gone. I thought it left with the feelings. I thought the temptation grabbed it on its way out. I thought it disappeared when ‘more than friends’ turned into ‘just friends.’

What is that feeling, exactly? Is it anger? Frustration? It is terrible, whatever it is. It is persistent and sneaky. And worst of all, uncontrollable.

It slowly dissipates. My fists unclench, my breath evens out, my heart slows down. Now what am I left with? Embarrassment? Sadness? Resentment?

It used to leave me with an inability to eat, and an irrepressible urge to glance at my cell phone every thirty seconds, on the off chance I may have gotten a text. It left me with an ache in my bones, a craving for control—of the situation, of my feelings, of my decisions. A craving I could never quite satisfy. I was left with resentment toward myself—that I could get so attached that something normally insignificant could have me rocked. Resentment, truthfully, that I could care about something to the point that it had the ability to take away my control. The resentment would settle, the craving would fade away. A slow and steady sadness would wind its way through me. And I would wait. I’d fight the urge to fix things (usually), and wait. And wait. And wait. And waitwaitwait. I’d shower, I’d run, I’d take a nap. I’d waste time until he was ready to fix things. And then I’d listen to a story, I’d accept an apology, and I’d let go of the control I promised myself I would grab this time.

And then things flipflopped. The situation changed, and suddenly I had all of the control. All of it. Every single last grain of control was in my hands. This wasn’t unexpected, but it was strange. And oddly unattractive. Things simmered—not too hot, not too cold. Until a simmer wasn’t enough. I turned it off, all of it, I thought. Just friends I said. That is all I want. And I thought it was gone. Until a hung up phone and a few muttered phrases had my fists clenched and my nails itching to dig. It snuck back in and shocked my system.

But it didn’t leave me with an empty stomach, or the need to fix things. It didn’t leave me with a desire for control, or resentment toward myself. It left me with annoyance. I thought it was gone. It left me with reassurance. I don’t need this anymore. It left me with wonder. What is it about him that does this to me. It left me with interest, curiosity, and a little bit of embarrassment for the unnecessary showers, naps, and runs I took in an attempt to escape.

I didn’t like the simmering, the perfect temperature to keep things going. Boring, maybe. This certainly changed the temperature. A twist of the nob, medium to hot, simmer to boil. Has he found a way to grasp some control? Have I let it out of my grip? Just Friends, I said. And he said, I Still Love You. Old habits are hard to break, old routines hard to avoid.

He was not suppose to be able to do this to me anymore. I thought it was gone.