The Sea of Tranquility

by Katja Millay

There’s probably a class for guidance counselors only—How to Emit Inappropriate Joy in the Face of Adolescent Horror. I’m fairly certain they don’t make teachers take it, because they don’t even bother to pretend.

Music should flow so that you can’t tell where one note ends and the next begins; music should have grace,

I haven’t started counting yet. I wonder if it’s just me or if it’s like that for everybody; that every time someone dies you start counting how much time has passed since they’ve been gone. First you count it in minutes, then in hours. You count in days, then weeks, then months. Then one day you realize that you aren’t counting anymore, and you don’t even know when you stopped. That’s the moment they’re gone.

Anyone who wants to save me is going to need a time machine because that dream is dead. No one was there to save me last time, and if I end up needing to be saved from anything else, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.