Five Total Strangers

by Natalie D. Richards

But I’m not like that. I’m not paranoid. But I’m not obtuse, either. I’ve learned to pay attention when the hair at the back of my neck prickles—when a carnal, bone-deep instinct tells me something is wrong.

It’s damn hard to fall apart when you’re busy being steady for somebody else.

I’m alone, but I feel wrong.

I don’t want to be with these strangers. I want my mom. My best friend. I want to go home.

I won’t let everyone else’s emotions continue

to throw me into a tailspin.

Somehow, even though you’re the one with the trauma, you become the comforter to the person fumbling through an attempt at sympathy.

Losing Phoebe taught me that when your world falls to pieces, your brain will not keep you moving. Your brain will shut down to a low static hum. Your heart will tear itself in half and ache until you’re sure you’ll die. Until some part of you wishes you could. It’s your instincts that will keep you alive.