If nostalgia had the power to kill her, she’d be dead long ago. She feels as though her body is lagging. Caught in a glitch. Time feels like an equation that can’t be solved, but we try. God knows we try. It’s a feeling of comfort you’ll never reach again, but you once had it. At least there’s that, right? Owning something sacred versus owning nothing at all. And maybe they see it all over her face. “Sad girl walking”, everyone chants without saying a word. It’s because she experienced loss at such a pivotal age. Saw a few deaths that still haunt her. Ate suffering without digesting it fully. Stares at the sun the way people stare at a storm. Burrows away in the comfort of a suburbia she can never bring herself to call home. Tempts her mind into leaving the life she built after loss. Keeps her jewelry tucked away in old ash trays in drawers from a dresser her grandma once owned. Listens for the floor to creek and swears it’s her dog she lost this year.