“It happens like that sometimes,” she says to me. Taking pen to paper, writing and judging simultaneously. “It happens sometimes.”
And I look around hysterically. I can’t breathe. I came here so she could help me breathe. Because it went too soon and it took my breath from me.
“But it happens and you must let that go.” She writes and she stares and I haven’t said a word because there’s still no air. Still she stares.
I had it once but it slipped through and I watched it die like most things do. And I mourned too long like most girls would. And I felt it all the way they say you should. I felt it all.
I can’t breathe.
We flew, we crashed. He floated, I sank.
“I can’t breathe.”
“Take a drink.”
Can she not see all of the water surrounding me? I can’t breathe.
She said the pills will help again. Twice a day, the pills will help. And she writes and she stares. I felt it then and I feel it now and I can’t breathe.