I stare at my feet, as though my Converse high-tops are currently the most exciting thing in the world, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. The stitching on my shoes is red. I just noticed that. And the shoelaces are kind of frayed on the ends; the tape I put on is dirty.

Sara: Eva, why won’t you talk? Why won’t you say anything? What happened?

Me:

I’d like to tell her. I really would. But I have to keep my mouth shut. Lock it and throw out the key. I’m standing on a crack in the sidewalk. I think that’s bad luck. I should move, but I can’t lift my feet. It’s as though they’re stuck, superglue prison. Like those dreams where you want to run, but you can’t.

Sara: Eva? What’s…wrong with you?

Me:

There’s a little ant wandering around between my feet. Most people would kill it, but I won’t. It’s kind of cute, actually.

Sara: Please, talk?

Me:

And say what? I kick at the ground, and wonder what happened to the old Eva. The non-broken one.
I wonder what I would’ve said, if it had never happened.