For the Record

by Emma Lord

It’s New York, where nothing makes people more determined to not pay attention to you than looking like you want attention.

I sit down with them and just like that, I’m that little kid spinning her wheels again—trying to be interesting enough. Good enough. Worthy of their attention, of their love.

He meets my eye, and there’s an ache in his face I recognize. The ache of wondering why someone who is supposed to love you unconditionally just—doesn’t.

There are no two words more perilously at odds with each other than “if” and “when.” “If” can fill you up with false hope or false dread. “If” is an infinite number of ways a scenario can shake out, in or out of your favor. “When” is a hammer drop. There’s no undoing it once it lands.