Maybe I don’t deserve love, but, one way or another, I keep going. I keep charging on.
Sometimes, I see the faces of old friends, a few precious childhood moments I struggle with keeping, but I can’t find the will to relive the good times for too long.
If I keep my mouth shut, is it possible to change the past?
When I think of my father now, I see a ghost. He won’t sleep, not anymore. Though he was not the definition of a generous man, I still miss him.
He’ll never speak to me again. He died.
I took his place.
I can’t be here...
“Ava, would you like to speak to the group?” the presenter asks.
Her eyes hold enough empathy to help a crowd of struggling people. If this was the Titanic, she’d sink with the orchestra.
I wonder if I’m the iceberg…
I blink like a deer in the headlights.
“No judgment,” she reiterates.
The door swings open. A flood of sunlight comes pouring in. It’s one of my cousin’s workers, a tech supervisor or something. I can tell by the outfit he’s wearing.
Printed on his shirt is his company’s logo, Arnoi Industries, and as I raise my eyes to get a better look, I see that his face is covered in deep tissue scars. How he found me here, I have no idea.
I’m not sure how to feel about his appearance.
He’s thin, dressed in black, bald as a cue-ball, with a set of familiar eyes. Familiar, but I’m unsure how I know him.
As he meanders through the entrance, he examines the faces in the room. When he sees mine, he nods and waits in the corner, folding his hands over his large belt buckle.
I heard Elon was in town, working on some new and mysterious project. He’s famous now. The Nightly News is always talking about him. Kind of odd he wouldn’t give me a call.
He knows I’m a good coder, but getting someone to follow me is a bit over the line. I have half a mind to ask him to leave, but Elon is my cousin. I haven’t seen him in years.
He was always friendly with my father. He’s probably just sending his condolences.
The woman leans forward, fingers twisted together like ancient, mangled roots, divided only by a thin, wet tissue. Every so often, they open and enclose over an area untouched.
I sit and stare, entrenched in my own thoughts.
“Ava?” she repeats. “If you’d like to speak, you may.”
The bald man doesn’t sit. He waits by the coffee cart, dully eyeing the desserts. He purses his lips and wags his head, fingers tickling the air over the donut of his choice.
Nothing like a quick burst of sugar to make the tears go away, right?
There’s no way I’m going to tell my story today.
I stand and grab my purse, hands trembling around the leather strap.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice too shaky for comfort. “Really, I am. But I can’t do this today.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s okay,” she says. “We understand. Don’t we?”
Everyone in the room nods, mumbling shallow words of support. They do that thing with their lips, pulling them inside their mouths, empathetic to the story they don’t even know is mine.