I didn’t go to class yesterday.

I thought about it, and I know that I should have gone, should have rallied, but I didn’t.

I lay in bed, instead, thinking about benches by lakes and late nights and what it means when a kid puts a gun to his head and doesn’t put it down.

I cried a lot, for myself, and for my dad, and for a boy I didn’t even know that well but miss anyway.

We just have to keep going, I had told them, but then my bones remade themselves out of sadness and misery and I didn’t know them any more.

They wouldn’t listen to me when I asked to get out of bed.

I’m doing my best, really, I am, but sometimes my brain is static in an empty motel room, where the sun never rises, and the moon never sets, and I can’t do, I can’t feel, I can’t blink, all I can do is just

breathe.

So yesterday I didn’t go to class.

I lay in bed, breathing, and hurting, and I didn’t tell you.

I didn’t tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.

It only occurred to me now that that is far more concerning, isn’t it.