"Do ghosts actually exist?"

"I saw a ghost"

"Can dead people stay on earth?"

"How to tell if you've seen a ghost"

I shake my head to clear my thoughts, shutting my computer with enough force to summon my mother, who seems to live within the three feet of space around my bedroom door.

"You okay?"

She asks, her hands covered in flour from the cupcakes she's trying to make because I don't know why.

I nod, flashing her a brief smile.

"Uh, yeah I just, just having trouble with a question for um, for school."

"Alright, well If you want my help, you know where I'll be."

She throws finger guns and laughs to herself, walking back down the hall to the kitchen.

Why was I researching ghosts? Good question.

It all started about a week ago

I had meant to grab my phone from my nightstand, but I accidentally knocked my pill box off, spilling its contents all over the floor.

And that's the story of how I turned into a small pale cave-dwelling goblin scrambling in the dark for his scattered treasures.

Light spills into the room as I'm putting the last of them into the box, and I'm blinded momentarily, confirming my goblin illustration.

My mom flicks on the light, already dressed in her uniform, mom-bag slung over her shoulder.

"Is everything alright?"

She asks, brows furrowed in concern.

I love my mom.

I know that she's doing the best as a single mom.

I know that most of her stress comes from me, and sometimes the guilt of that fact is so bad that it physically hurts.

I know that after my previous... self-assasination attempt (my therapist is a young man who doesn't like the word "suicide")

She's scared.

I know all of this.

So why am I so annoyed with her?

I shouldn't be; I should be grateful that I've been given everything, and I hate myself for being anything but thankful.

I shake my head and smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

She nods her head, as if reassuring herself, and checks the box on my bedside table.

The one that holds my "happy capsules" as my therapist calls them.

I hate my therapist.

But my mom had to pull a ton of strings to get me there, so I go.

It makes her feel like I'm getting better.

Newsflash: I'm not.

But I know how to pretend.

"You good on refills?"

She asks, even though she refilled them two days ago.

"Yeah."

I reply in a cheery voice, like I didn't have an anxiety attack the other day when I had to give a presentation at school

and just ended up clicking the fucking clicker ten million times and saying the word "today" thirty-six times ( yes I counted what else was I supposed to do?) until my throat closed up completely and I ran out of the classroom sobbing,

much to the amusement of Natalie Goldman, who had a video of the entire thing and posted it to her twitter and Instagram.

Jared tried to tell me that no one even cares about that kind of thing anymore, which I almost believed until it went viral on the schools forum thingy - I don't know what it's called - and people started selling buttons and T-shirts with my face on them that said "mood", including Jared, who promised to give me 15% of all profit made from them.

There was that, at least.

"Okay."

My mom says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

She hovers for a moment before producing a black marker from somewhere and handing it to me.

"For people to sign your cast."

She explains, tucking it into my shirt pocket.

I nod, not wanting to reiterate that I have no friends, rendering the marker completely useless.

"Don't forget that you have an appointment with your Mariah this afternoon, I'll pick you up after school."

She smooths the front of her uniform down, tugging at the hem.

"I thought I didn't, didn't have an ap-appointment until uh, until next week?"

See, I actually can talk, as long as it's only like two syllables, but any more than that maxes out my brain capacity and I short circuit.

My mom fiddles with her hair, her fingers running over the pill box.

"Yes well, I thought you might like to go sooner."

She smiles briefly.

This is one of these games we play where she tries to get me to think something is my idea or is something that I want, except I know it's bullshit, and she knows I know it's bullshit, but in this situation she's the adult and so I just keep my mouth shut and nod.

She furrows her brows again.

"Can we just try to be optimistic? The world isn't going to fall apart, Evan."

She says that a lot.

I don't think she understands that I don't really get to choose these things.

"Sounds great."

I nod.

I do that a lot, too.

She nods back.

"Alright then, there's waffles in the toaster, I'll be home late, love you see you later."

She kisses the top of my head and walks to my door.

"I'm proud of you!"

She calls as she walks away.

"Yay!"

I call back half-heartedly,

Leaning down to put my shoes on.