The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

Funny how all those old misgivings no longer matter once shit gets real.

Maybe it’s a man thing, not wanting to invest in hope.

We’re not meant to be best friends with every person who crosses our paths. Not everyone has our best interests at heart.

Sometimes love is wonderful. Other times it’s poison.

But there’s something about human nature that makes us shameless opportunists. We stumble across a chance, experience the tiniest taste of something we want, and we can’t say no.

Monsters are real. They’re real, and they’re capable of doing the unspeakable. And they don’t hide under beds or in closets—they hide in plain sight. You just don’t always notice them.

Years later, she went on to admit she should’ve named me Emily or Elizabeth, something timeless and easy to spell.

We treat tragedies like entertainment, the American public priding ourselves on being armchair detectives trying to solve these crimes, but the second the sensationalism dies down and the case grows cold, we move on to the next exciting thing.