Alex North

When I’m gone, I’m gone

always—alone, but never lonely

I can’t do this.

And for a few seconds, she was eight years old again. Terrified,
and yet too frightened to call out because she knew there was nobody in the house who would come.

Then:

You can do this, she imagined her father saying. I raised you better.

I don’t care if you ever think about me at all.

I’ll think about you instead.

Ideas that felt good in my head came out flat and lifeless on paper. I started a lot, and finished nothing.

“Sleep well,” I said.