I sit in a room. A room that used to be our room, in a house that used to be our house. I’m sitting in the corner, looking at their bed. They have become my friends over these past months. At least I think it’s been months. Time means nothing for someone like me. 

I may have just done something horrible. I need you. I thought you would be here with me, but you aren’t. 

    Instead, I am alone. Even they are gone. And I don’t know if they’re coming back: their bed is empty. 

In the room that used to be ours. 

My actions don’t feel like my own, and I don’t know what consequences they will have. All I can do is wait. 

    I have hurt people before. I know that. Everyone has. But now it seems that I have endless hours to think about what I’ve done. 

    The room is uncanny. I recognize the walls and windows, the space in the closet. I know the bathroom off to the right. Yet I am an intruder.
   A ghost. 

    I wish they had one of those clocks that ticked. I used to have one when I was a little girl. It would help me sleep. It was purple and glittery and said Wake Up Princess in fat cursive letters. Very not me. But I guess it was me when I was twelve. A lot has changed since then. 

    I just wish they had one, so I could feel time passing. As it is, I sit in a vacuum. I can’t feel the air moving: I can’t tell if it’s stale or not, or if everything just seems stale to me. 

    I think I made a mistake, and you aren’t here to fix it. You were always so good at that. 

    I miss you. 

    I’m just so lonely, here in this house that used to be ours. 

    I’ve gotten so numb these past weeks. Even saying ‘I miss you’ falls flat. But the loneliness. That won’t go away. 

Maybe that is my punishment. 

    The funny thing about guilt is, it’s not like the damp that seeps into your clothes, the mud that gets under your nails, or the hangover that will eventually fade over time. Guilt stays. It lingers like an unwanted smell. It follows me from room to room, gently poking me to remind me it’s still there. It is not loud. It does not yell. It does not stomp after me. It tiptoes. It crawls. It watches. It waits until I’m at my most vulnerable.

And then it whispers my name.