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She doesn’t even realize that she’s crying. She can only think that there might not be enough oxygen going to her brain, because it hurts so bad she thinks her skull is going to explode, and all the air is leaving her body and floating up into the sky like a balloon you get from the party decorations store. She’s in her bed, trying to figure out how to close her eyes, worried about what she’ll do once they’re open. She’s laying there, waiting for her life to make sense and knowing that if she could just close her eyes, she wouldn’t have to know a little while longer, and maybe a little while is all she needs. She lets her thoughts wander, as painful as it is to think, and tries to be quiet. It’s too late to be loud.

It’s easy to be quiet when you can’t breathe. It’s hard to breathe, hard to inhale and exhale and do it in the right order and say the right words. It’s easier to fail than to breathe. It’s easy to be quiet when you fail at everything else. You have nothing to say, afraid you’ll stumble over the words.