Thumbnail illustration by Zainab Hudha
Thumbnail artwork by Zainab Hudha
The distance between us shifts from a car ride to three flights. (I make pizza for dinner.) We call only to ask why we haven’t called and after we hang up, I text you I want space. (Your Happy New Year makes me smile.)
Time is honest; every morning looks like forgiveness. (I am not looking for you anymore.) This place we call home is now storage boxes, new phone numbers, and winter clothes. (I hope you find good friends.)
Every February, my life changes. (I have lived through it all.)
I think of this nameless emotion—the space between the last word of a sentence and a full stop, the hour and minute hands of a clock, parted lips whispering goodbyes.
Why does everything look like growing up? Science doesn’t believe in growing pains. My milk teeth are gone. I am not 13. They tell me life is a big act. Then tell me why I am still waiting for the curtain call.