I told myself when I moved out, I’d delete this number. Delete this entire thread of texts. It’s not like your number’s even connected anymore. But every time I go to delete it, something stops me. I was never one for journaling, and putting words to what I was feeling and dealing with. It was easier to turn it into art—into something fictional and manageable. Personifying my anxiety into a monster for a superhero to defeat, rather than spell it out…dig too deep… I was worried what truths would spill out. What secrets I would discover about myself. So long as I didn’t face them head on, I
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