On day one, she saw nothing but the roof of her old room, now four walls and a ceiling foreign to her in the most familiar way. From house to house it was easy for nothing to feel really hers, not the mattress nor the sheets or even her own body. Nothing was hers. She had only one thing and it wasn't hers to keep. The room got progressively darker and at some point her cheeks got dry and hard. The door was knocked three times during the afternoon. At night the floor outside stopped creaking. There were no more footsteps from side to side of her bedroom door.
.
On day fourteen to day twenty one the days were warm and sunny. People took their children to the park and their dogs played around, wagging their tails and barking. There were little boys throwing balls and little girls jumping hopscotch. Moms walking around with strollers, with babies sleeping inside; tiny fingers and tiny toes, warm cheeks and round bellies. Her hands never seemed to get warm, walking on the sidewalk felt like stepping on clouds, like floating, unsteady and dizzying. The streets were never ending, and everything was far away. Nothing was hers.
.
On day thirty her breasts stopped hurting. Her chest didn't. It rained and the raindrops hit the window and the wind blew the trees, a branch knocked against the window glass the entire night. The ceiling had a black spot, right above her head. If she lifted her arm and stretched her index finger, it wasn't there anymore. The problem was, her arm got tired of being stretched up after a few minutes, and when she lowered it to rest on her side, the black spot was there again.
.
On day sixty the dark spot above her head when she lay down on the bed was bigger. She had to hold up her fist, now, in order for it to go away. Footsteps from side to side outside her bedroom door were less and less, until they were a dark memory in that dark part of her brain, the room were the old and useless things were stored and sometimes came in random dreams. She could feel her ribs if she rested her hand on the side of her waist. She could also feel them if she rested her hands on her stomach. She did not such thing.
.
On day ninety, there were lips on hers. They felt soft, and moist, delicate and wrong. They felt big and pressuring, for the five seconds they were against hers. Her pillow was wet with tears as day ninety turned to day ninety one. The black spot above her head seemed ready to swallow her whole. It was the first day she allowed herself to turn on the computer and enter the website she never had to bookmark because she knew it by heart, typed it by instinct. If she closed her eyes and put her earphones on, it felt as though she wasn't alone. She could rest her arm at her side and leave her palm up, at any second, it was going to be held by a soft, warm hand. Except it never happened. There were no soft, chubby hands on her cheeks, either. Just warm tears that tasted salty once they reached the corners of her mouth and trailed down her cheeks and neck, and by dawn she had to turn the pillow over or the wetness would burn her cheek until she had to get up.
.
On day two hundred, the world was still the same. It didn't end. Nothing changed. It was still turning and people were still living their lives. Sometimes it felt as though she was seeing everything through a glass; someone else was living her life, cheating on her boyfriend and yelling hard truths to the one she loved. Sometimes it felt like she was being pulled along, an invisible leash around her neck, squeezing the air out of her, drowning her deeper with the wrong things to say and the wrong things to do. Standing in the middle of the hallway, dressed like her, she had nothing again. Nothing was hers. The only thing she longed wasn't hers to claim.
.
On day two hundred and ninety nine, she cried for hours after Brittany hugged her. It felt as if she were a porcelain doll, cracked and ready to break. Brittany just had to touch one of the open cracks, and everything fell apart. After, her head hurt as well as her throat, and all she wanted was to fall asleep. Day three hundred was no more special, wasn't better. She went back home with a fluffy grey kitten, who played with her for ten minutes and slept the rest of the day. It didn't actually need her, just like she didn't actually need him. He was his own, not really hers.
.
On day three hundred and sixty five, no one looked at her. No more than usual, not with concern or pity. Judy made her breakfast in bed. They talked about books. She lay down in her pajamas for a few minutes more, staring at the ceiling. The black spot was still there, the size of her head. Now she had to hold up her two hands and spread them wide, and still the black spot was visible between her fingers. Her mother pursed her lips when she saw it. She said it needed to be fixed, it was a leak. But she thought it was more like a flood, and wasn't sure if it was broken enough to fix. It needed mending, and a cover of paint. Noah's truck was parked across the street. She walked to her car, and drove away.
.
On day three hundred and sixty seven, a door almost smashed into her face. The leash around her neck pulled her forward, and she was gasping for breath. She was choking, and warm hands cupped hesitantly one of her cheeks, and deep brown eyes peered concernedly up at her. She was supposed to be gone, and her absence was the thing tightening the leash, leaving an imprint on her skin, the kind that never went away. But instead she was here, and her softness seeped right through her, so it couldn't have been another dream. And then the dam was broken, and sure enough, it was a flood. Still, she couldn't answer why she was crying. Was it something or was it everything? What did she have to cry about?
.
On day three hundred and sixty eight, she rested her head against the seat and looked through the glass, right at the clouds. Her newly short hair tickled her ears, and she could have smiled. Could have. Her right hand rested against her stomach, against the soft fabric of her dress, against her ribs. And her left hand, resting palm up at her side, was touched by fingertips, and those fingertips touched hers, one by one until each touched each. She had never seen her hand so pale in contrast, her fingers so long. It was then that she realized no one could answer her questions but herself. Who could she ask for answers instead? Her bones felt lighter in the place she sat, and her hand felt made of wax; the warm hand now resting fully against her own was much too warm, and the eyes smiling tentatively at her burned. She had to blink and look away; it was like looking at the sun.
.
On day three hundred and seventy, the grass was green and the day was warm. Her mother said they might have to fix the ceiling on her bedroom, break it and put it together again, paint it over. It might not look perfect, she said, but it will be whole.
.
Day four hundred was the last one she remembered counting. It was not the first time the right lips touched hers; it wasn't the day warm hands slipped under the back of her shirt. She lay down in her bed and the spot above her head was white, done over. You could see there used to be something alien there, but it was fixed, white again, patched up. The weight on her chest was soft and warm, the hot breath tickled her jaw, and the sun shined through the window.
.
On day seven hundred and thirty, Rachel's hand was on hers when she knocked on the door. The door opened merely seconds later and a hesitant smile met her, the sound of a TV inside and a Happy Birthday sign above the kitchen door. Rachel squeezed her hand, and let her go once she was brave enough to step inside. It was a bright day, perfect for a tiny yellow dress and warm, chubby hands pressing on her cheeks while brown eyes peered into her face. It didn't matter what she saw, it didn't matter what they were. Beth said Quinn like it was the most beautiful word on Earth. The warm weight was foreign, yet familiar, in the way that new but right things feel.